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GOD IS MY ADVENTURE

books by the same author

Minos the Incorruptible

Pilsudski

Pademwski

Seven

Thy Kingdom Come

Search for Tomorrow

Arm the Apostles

Love for a Country

Of No Importance

We have seen Evil

Hitler's Paradise

The Fool's Progress

Letter to Andrew

GOD
IS MY ADVENTURE

a book on modern mystics
masters and teachers

by
ROM LANDAU

FABER AND FABER

24 Russell Square
London

Gratefully to
B

who taught me some of the best

yet most painful

lessons

Fifst\/)ublished by Ivor Nicholson and Watson

September Mcmxxxv
Reprinted October Mcmxxxv
November Mcmxxxv
November Mcmxxxv
February Mcmxxxvi
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June Mcmxxxix

Transferred to Faber and Faber Mcmxli

Reprinted Mcmxliii, Mcmxliv, Mcmxlv and Mcmliii

Printed in Great Britain by

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Paulton (Somerset) and London

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

There is something sacrilegious in your intention of writing
such a book,' said a friend — and yet I went on with it.

Since I was a boy I have always been attracted by those regions
of truth that the official religions and sciences are shy of exploring.
The men who claim to have penetrated them have always had for
me the same fascination that famous artists, explorers or states-
men have for others — and such men are the subject of this book.
Some of them come from the East, some from Europe and America;
some give us a glimpse of truth by the mere flicker of an eyelid,
while others speak of heaven and hell with the precision of mathe-
maticians.

I have met them all, and some I have watched in their daily lives.
For years now I have sought their company, questioned them and
watched them closely at work. I have tried to dissociate the per-
sonality from the teaching and then to reconcile the two. I have
included some of those whom now I cannot view without mistrust.
Since thousands of other people believe in them, they are at any rate
most interesting figures in contemporary spiritual life, however
little of ultimate value their teaching may possess.

There are people who know the heroes of this book more inti-
mately than I, but my aim has never been to identify myself with
any one teacher. On the contrary, I have always been anxious to
discover for myself through what powers they have influenced so
many people.

This attitude will warn the reader not to expect an impersonal
survey of contemporary spiritual doctrines. I have limited myself
to writing of those men with whom I have been in personal contact.
I approach them not as the scholar but as the ordinary man who tries
to find God in daily life.

This book is the confession of an adventure and the story of my
friendships with those men whom a future generation may possibly
call the true prophets of our time. The core of the adventure is a
search for God. I leave it to the reader to decide whether such a search
can be sacrilegious. R. L.

MOCKBRIDGE HOUSE
HENFIELD, SUSSEX
Summer, 1935

PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION

(Ninth Impression)

It is an agreeable duty for an a*uthor to express his pleasure when
one of his books has enjoyed public favour sufficiently to call for
yet another edition seven years after its first publication. In the
present case, to the author's pleasure must be added his gratitude
to his readers. For I have greatly profited from the thousands of
letters received from people previously unknown to me, and even
more so from the many valuable personal contacts which have often
resulted from such correspondence. I should be false to my real
feelings if I refrained from giving utterance to my gratitude for the
enlightenment which I have thus derived.

When the manuscript of God Is My Adventure was first submitted
to its original publishers, four of the five readers to whom the book
was sent for a professional opinion, turned it down. The fifth pointed
out that, whatever merits the book might possibly possess, it hardly
justified publication since not more than a handful of people were
ever likely to be interested in it. The five readers were unanimous
in thinking that for a 'philosophical' book God Is My Adventure
was not sufficiently orthodox, and for one purporting to explore
the by-ways of modem esotericism, not pronounced enough in its
allegiance to any individual one of the teachers and systems which
it described.

Nevertheless the book has had to be repeatedly reprinted
during the last seven years, and I assume this has mainly been due
to two facts: people are always eager to learn from the spiritual
experiences of a fellow seeker: many others, disillusioned by the
Churches, were only too willing to delve into the ways and methods
of unorthodox schools of thought, yet without at the same time
feeling compelled to accept this or that method as the only valid one.
In spiritual research the utmost personal freedom is a sine qua non.
The seeker may, and indeed does, demand that those of whose
findings he reads, should have a definite viewpoint of their own.
But he will draw back as soon as he suspects that he is being pontifi-
cally forced by the author into accepting a certain point of view.

If in God Is My Adventure no effort was made to impose dogmatic
opinions upon the reader,%this was no* Hftwmoft nf undue

PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION

on the part of the author, but rather because of his belief that none
of the doctrines expounded by him had the monopoly of the 'whole'
truth. In his opinion both the knowledge and the methods of the
men under review were complementary to, rather than exclusive of,
one another. And is it not a truism to say that a system which to-day
perfectly fulfils our spiritual needs,' may easily prove inadequate at
some future stage of our search? Living truth cannot possibly be
static. Though truth is one, its facets differ, as do our means of com-
prehending it.

Unless I completely misread the signs, I believe that there are
reasons far beyond the possible merits of the present book which
make its re-issue necessary in war time. I am only one among those
who are convinced that the present war is mainly the expression
of a spiritual conflict. The armed struggle is merely the visible
reflection of something far more fundamental. Most of our spiritual
conflicts can manifest themselves only by means of struggles on the
material plane. But surely no-one imagines that the establishment
of conditions propitious for victory and the right Peace afterwards
is a purely material task, concerning economists and politicians
alone. Is it not in reality a task incumbent upon every individual,
however far he or she may be removed from the actual prosecution
of the war? And does it not therefore follow that it is the spiritual
effort of the individual which ultimately counts? But such efforts are
doomed to frustration unless they are inspired by an intense inner
urge. Routine and habit will not take us very far. Equally, this
inner urge will lead us into blind alleys if we remain ignorant of
the means by which it can be translated into practical action.

Books obviously cannot create a sense of spiritual urgency. But
by demonstrating the reality and the power of what is spiritual in
man, they can certainly intensify it. The response to God Is My
Adventure leads me to believe that something of the burning urge
responsible for the writing of the book, may possibly have been
reflected in its pages. Moreover, many of the men described in it
were concerned with methods of transforming spiritual ardour into
practical action. Thus, though God Is My Adventure hardly touches
upon subjects directly related to war, it does deal with some of the
permanent verities of life which * cannot be separated from the
problems confronting us to-day.

No-one can solve the problems of his neighbour: how much less

PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION

can books achieve this. Yet what they can do, is to indicate the way
in which others have tried to meet their own problems. All faith
and all search for truth share a common denominator. If our own
vision of God finds confirmation in the visions of our fellow seekers,
we cannot but help feeling strengthened.

I believe more than ever to-day that every book or work of art
which helps us to realize that the great events in the outside world
are not independent of ourselves, but magnified projections of some-
thing within ourselves, has a useful function to perform. Whether
our individual awareness grows through study, suffering, religion
or personal relationships, is immaterial. What matters, is that we
should become more acutely conscious of our responsibility in
regard to those bigger events which appear to be beyond our own
control. Division, like space, is a relative entity whose existence is
limited to the material world alone. In the spiritual world neither
of these have any existence. And since in the spiritual world it is the
individual who counts, his motives and the workings of his mind
are the forces that ultimately may have the power to tip the scales
of historic events.

If this war-time edition of God Is My Adventure can succeed,
in however imperfect a way, to help a few individuals to become more
aware of their spiritual responsibility, then this new reprint would
seem to be fully justified.

The eight or nine years which have elapsed since God Is My
Adventure was first written have not made me change my original
assessment of the men of whom the book treats. Those who at that
time appeared to me genuine and significant have since increased
in both these qualities. Those, on the other hand, whom I could not
help viewing with a certain reserve, appear to me to-day even more
dubious. Thus, except for a number of minor corrections, it has not
seemed necessary to introduce alterations into the text.

ROM LANDAU

THE MANOR
STOUOHTON, CHICHESTER
1942

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to acknowledge the following permissions and to express
my thanks to the various authors and /or publishers and editors:
Messrs. Basil Blackwell for quotations from Oxford and the
Groups; Messrs. Jonathan Cape for quotations from Introduction to
Keyserling, by Mrs. Gallagher Parks; Mr. Harry Collison for quota-
tions from his various translations of the books by Rudolf Steiner;
Messrs. J. M. Dent for quotations from the article 'More about the
Perfect Master* in Everyman', The Hogarth Press for quotations from
essays by Mr. C. Day Lewis and Mr. Michael Roberts in New
Country; Messrs. John Lane, the Bodley Head, for quotations from
Saints Run Mad, by Marjorie Harrison; The Oxford University
Press for quotations from What is the Oxford Group?; Messrs. Kegan
Paul for quotations from Mrs. Annie Besant by Theodore Besterman;
Messrs. Rider and Mr. Paul Brunton for quotations from the
latter's A Search in Secret India; Messrs. Martin Seeker for quota-
tions from Lorenzo in Taos, by Mrs. Mabel Dodge; and The New
Statesman and Nation and Mr. Bensusan for quotations from the
latter's article 'Mother Earth and the Husbandman'; The Sunday
Chronicle for quotations from the article 'This New Religion', by
J. B. Priestley; The Sunday Express and Mr. James Douglas for
quotations from the latter's article 'Shri Meher Baba'; The Evening
Standard for quotations from the article 'Dr. Buchman', by Alva
Johnstone; The Times for quotations from the leading article 'The
Oxford Group Movement'.

CONTENTS

PART ONE: THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT
Introduction: Truth in Kensington Gardens page 17

I. Wisdom in Darmstadt

COUNT KEYSERLING 23

II. Episodes in Modern Life

STEFAN GEORGE and BO YIN RA 38

III. Occult Truth

RUDOLF STEINER 48

PART TWO: THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE
Introduction: The English Scene 75

I. The Throne that was Christ's

KRISHNAMURTI 80

II. Portrait of a ' Perfect Master'

SHRI MEHER BABA 105

III. Miracle at the Albert Hall

PRINCIPAL GEORGE JEFFREYS 119

IV. The Man whose God is a Millionaire

DR. FRANK BUCHMAN 141

V. War against Sleep

P. D. OUSPENSKY 163

VI. Harmonious Development of Man

GURDJIEFF 181

CONTENTS

PART THREE: FULFILMENTS

Introduction: Aryan Gods page 204

I. The Loneliness of Hermann Keyserling 213

II. The Testament of Rudolf Steiner 236

III. Krishnamurti in Carmel 258

Conclusion: The Living God 289

Bibliography 307

Index 317

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE AUTHOR
COUNT KEYSERLING
STEFAN GEORGE
RUDOLF STEINER
KRISHNAMURTI
SHRI MERER BABA
PRINCIPAL JEFFREYS
FRANK BUCHMAN
P. D. OUSPENSKY
GURDJIEFF

frontispiece

facing page 18

106

120

142

164

182

PART ONE
THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

'God is a Spirit: and they that worship him
must worship him in spirit and in truth.'

ST. JOHN iv. 24.

INTRODUCTION
TRUTH IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

*I am not sure that the mathematician understands
this world of ours better than the poet and the
mystic.'

SIR ARTHUR EDDINGTON.

It began like this: one day in May, during an exceptionally cold
spell, I was walking through the deserted Kensington Gardens,
and it suddenly occurred to me that had it not been May, but Janu-
ary, we should not have thought the weather very cold. Instead of
cursing our treacherous climate, we should have enjoyed the Park
even without overcoats. I found the idea attractive, and I began to
make myself believe that it really was not May but January. The
atmosphere around me seemed to change. The air no longer appeared
to be cold, and the icy wind had the pleasant mildness of one of those
occasional breezes which distinguish an English from a continental
winter.

I now remembered an earlier experience. I had been travelling
through China, and once for a whole day it had been impossible to get
any food. To pass the time, I began to imagine the perfect meal, think-
ing of it not in an abstract way but as though I were actually eating it.
I went solidly through it, taking two helpings of each of the many rich
courses, and eating more than was good for me. The intensity with
which I gave myself up to it made me feel quite ill.

The experience in China, like that in Kensington Gardens, illus-
trates the power of one's mind. Belief in the power of the mind over
the body does not, however, imply advocacy of mental healing.
Modern civilization has b$en concentrating on the development of
B 17

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

our bodies while neglecting our minds. We sleep with our windows
wide open in winter; we consult doctors about our diet; we visit ex-
pensive spas, and examine, at the slightest provocation, the colour
of our tongues — but we do not bother about finding the best exercises
for our mind or the right diet for our mental system. The various
forms of mind healing drew our attention to the fact that for the cure
of illness our mind may be as important as doctors and medicines;
but we cannot pretend that our mental equipment has reached a
stage at which it could replace the highly specialized apparatus of
modern medicine.

There may come a time when we shall heal every disease through
the power of the mind, and when we shall communicate with our
friends in the other hemisphere through mental processes. We cannot,
however, expect humanity to evolve a therapy of mental healing
within one or two generations.

After the war of 1914-18, wherever I went, no matter whether in
England, on the Continent, in America or the Far East, conversation
was likely to turn to supernatural subjects. It looked as though many
people were feeling that their daily lives were only an illusion, and
that somehow there must somewhere be a greater reality. The urge
towards it lay constantly at the back of their curiosity, and they were
trying to satisfy that urge whenever they were able to get away either
from their daily round or from solitude. For most people can employ
their thoughts only when stimulated by company and conversation.
There were also those men and women who were trying quite
methodically to find the reality behind the illusion of daily life; and
they would attend special schools and follow special teachers.

Slowly I began to understand that the quest for God is nothing but
the desire of discriminating between illusion and reality. It is the
longing for that ultimate truth which Blake described when he wrote:

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a mid flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand.

And eternity in an hour.

Though the problem of truth is as old as the world, yet few things
are more difficult than to define its limits* and the further we advance

COUNT KEYSERLING

TRUTH IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

in the search for truth, the more those limits recede. It is not truth
itself that varies, but only conceptions of it. The green apple is no
longer green when I look at it in a dark room. Its greenness dis-
appears if I give myself up to the enjoyment of its flavour, forgetting
all about its looks; it vanishes, too, if I concentrate on another object
near by; it changes according to its surroundings, according to the
colour of the object placed beside it. Yet there must be means of
seeing the essential oneness of the apple instead of its superficial
multiplicity.

To-day one of the main difficulties in seeing truth lies in our in-
capacity for thought. Our work has become specialized and simpli-
fied, our travelling quick and effortless, even our amusements are
transmitted to our homes. There is neither time nor apparent
need for thought. Yet the most natural way of finding truth is through
thinking.

For most people it is easier to look at an apple — to smell, to touch,
to eat — in short, to perceive it through their senses, than to contem-
plate it. To think, in a way that would allow us to record truth as
clearly as the eye records colour and the palate taste, we must know
how to think. Few people can do this, and it might be well if every
one of us were forced to spend half an hour a day in a quiet room,
utterly bereft of radios, telephones, newspapers, magazines — even
of good books. There, out of sheer boredom, we should perhaps
begin to think; and after a few months we should begin to discover
that during those thirty minutes we had been able to accomplish
more of significance than during the rest of the week.

Ill

It was only in the last two centuries that intellectual truth was con-
sidered alone acceptable and spiritual truth merely a doctrine of the
various religions. And yet truth in its spiritual sense is, as compared
with purely intellectual truth, like the day as compared with its image
seen through the spectacles of night. During a sleepless night little
everyday dangers seem insuperable, and each difficulty is magnified
beyond recognition. Every one of us has felt at some time or other
during the nightmares between sleeping and waking that his problems
were too complex to be solved b$ any other means than that of a dive
through the bedroom window into the street below. When the morning
arrived, the problems resigned their correct proportions, and likewise

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

when seen with the eyes of spiritual truth those of our instincts and
motives that seemed full of mystery become natural.

There are, however, other reasons for searching after truth. The
idea of such a search lies very near the idea of living according to
standards consonant with ethical laws, for to live ethically means to
do instinctively the things that are spiritually right.

Here it may be remembered that there would probably have been
fewer attempts of a transcendental kind after the war of 1914-18 if
modern leadership had been based more firmly on spiritual truth
and thus have had deeper ethical roots. Surely conditions to-day
would be different if the men who directed our destinies had been
driven more by a conscious faith than by the forces of scepticism,
of national ambitions and of racial prejudice. For who were the
leaders who directed the life of Europe in the last few decades?
Emperors, kings, politicians, financiers, industrialists and dema-
gogues of various kinds. Do we find in many of them the sign of
mystical power which the late Czar of all the Russias or the
Emperor of Germany pretended to possess by simple virtue of his
office? Or did such 'realists' as the Billows, Czernins and Isvolskys
see the problems of their time as a 'reality in the final and
highest sense'? Shrewdness, talent for debate, memory of fact were
the main qualifications required. It will be an interesting task for
future historians to show how far the disasters of the last twenty-five
years are due to the lack in the responsible men of Europe of real
ethical foundations.

For the people at large, driven into losing faith in former
ideals, there was some excuse for their seeking after truth along new
channels. For truth reveals itself in many ways: through thought,
through vision, through clairvoyance, through religious experience.

This book is 'not intended to disturb the serenity of those who are
unshaken in the faith they hold'. Neither is it meant for those people
who sweep aside anything that cannot be explained in terms of the
matter of fact. This book is meant neither for them nor for those who
believe in the destruction of the individual for the glorification of an
abstract State or a political doctrine. It deals with men who profess
to have unveiled 'some Divine truth which we could not have dis-
covered for ourselves, but which, when it is shown to us by others to

TRUTH IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

whom God has spoken, we can recognize as Divine' (Dean Inge).
Many of the activities of the men described in this book would (in the
nineteenth century) have been called supernatural; but men, when
seeking truth, have always studied the supernatural. Whether we
read Prometheus Bound, Hamlet, Faust or the works of Homer, Dante,
Milton, Shelley, we always find in them a preoccupation with the
hidden powers that direct man's destiny from lands unknown.

There are more signs than one that we no longer live in a period in
which to seek truth in supernatural regions would be considered as
verging upon insanity. Are the waves generated by a little electric
instrument and those produced by our minds so different as to ex-
clude the possibility of similar results? Is the one more 'real' than the
other?

Higher mathematics and physics have reached a stage of such
intellectual differentiation that soon it will become impossible to
refer to them as to rational sciences, and they might find themselves
one day in the unusual company of such a scientific bastard as oc-
cultism. Many scientists admit that the new wave parable rather than
the former theory of the structure of electrons or the theory of trans-
formation of matter into energy has brought science to a point where
the word 'matter' becomes somewhat out of place. The difference
between certain processes within the atom and the process, say, of
creative thought or emotion may, after all, not be very great. A man
of science such as Sir James Jeans admits in his Mysterious Universe
that science is not yet in contact with ' ultimate reality'. If a leader of
scientific thought admits that science does not provide ultimate
reality, then people with less circumscribed vision simply have to
venture into those lands that science feels shy of entering. 'No
science,' says Dean Inge in his admirable Book on English Mystics,
'which deals with one aspect of reality . . . exhausts what may be
truly said about things. The world as projected by the ethical . . .
faculties has as good a right to claim reality as that which the natural
sciences reveal to us.'

Science has begun to admit that the world of the spirit and the
world of matter are not two antipodes. The same applies to the
natural and the supernatural worlds, and it is again Professor Jeans
who confessed that the scientific conception of the universe in the past
was mistaken, and that the borderline between the objective world,
as it is manifested in nature, and the subjective one, as it expresses
itself through the mind, hardly exists. In his»presidential address at the

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

annual meeting (1934) of the British Association at Aberdeen, he
said: 'The Nature we study does not consist so much of something
we perceive as of our perceptions; it is not the object . . . but the
relation itself. There is, in fact, no clear-cut division between the
subject and object.' Twenty years ago such a statement would have
been thought madness.

What matters more than this new 'spiritualization' of science is the
fact that there have always been men who believed in those unknown
lands and who tried to investigate them even though science, philo-
sophy and at times official religion denied their existence. The names
these people attach to their researches are of no importance. What
matters is to know that we are pursuing something that brings us
nearer to God — whether in China, Aberdeen or Kensington Gardens.

CHAPTER I

WISDOM IN DARMSTADT
Count Keyserling

Tn no country after the war could the desire for new ideals have been
L stronger than in Germany. Germany had become the melting pot of
so many contradictory tendencies that some spectacular results were
bound to follow. The Nazi Revolution fifteen years later was only
one of them. In 1919 Germany was a country whose ideals had been
destroyed. The paradox of a nation situated, both in the geographical
and spiritual sense, in a critical position between the Western and the
first outposts of the Eastern world; a nation intellectually keen, full
of an exaggerated pride and of a burning desire for power, yet in the
throes of an unparalleled defeat; bursting with a talent for organi-
zation, yet limited in her activities and stifled in her aspirations by
an indecisive Peace Treaty; betrayed by an Emperor who for thirty
years had been the idol of sixty million all too docile people — such a
paradox was bound to create conditions in which the most extraord-
inary movements could flourish.

Though life in Germany in the period after the war was anything
but pleasant, I do not regret having spent several years there at that
epoch. The experience was not always edifying but it never failed to
be enlightening.

It may strike one as incongruous that a search for God should
have begun in a country which seemed further removed from Him
than any other. Yet it is mainly under such conditions that a strong
reaction can originate. In Holland, Switzerland and the Scandinavian
countries there had been no dangerous upheaval, and there was no
need for an establishment of new values. In the Latin countries
spiritual research, outside the paths prescribed by the Roman
Catholic Church, has hardly ever existed. Russia, in the depths of its
fermentation, had replaced all deliberate spiritual activities by the
deification of the State. The new countries were too preoccupied
with organizing their new existence and too absorbed in their national
ambitions to bother about purely spiritual issues.

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

Besides a native inclination it needs a great national catastrophe to
account for the popularity of a supernatural movement. Germany
had that inclination, and had experienced such a catastrophe. All
values in German life had shifted; such words as 'faith' had but little
meaning, and the few existing beliefs had solely an intellectual
character. Serious problems were mostly treated with cynicism. The
poorer classes knew nothing but resignation and bitterness, and the
upper classes followed any fashion and craze that made them forget
their unreal existence. This was especially evident in Berlin. In many
places of entertainment, men dressed up as women and women in
masculine attire added to the sense of the unreality of sex. The price
of a body was as low as the price of cocaine or some newer drug
which would destroy for a few hours the last vestige of reality. Yet in
most cases cynicism and flippancy were but a mask concealing the
anxiety which at times assumed proportions of real terror. People
were constantly preoccupied with such questions as: What were the
realities of German life? What of the stability of the German Repub-
lic? What of the German mark, of the power of finance and industry,
of the to-morrow?

Certain sections of the younger generation tried to find new values
in life through movements built on the pattern of the English Boy
Scouts. In some of these one could find vague metaphysical, homo-
sexual and above all political elements, many of which found un-
mistakable realization fourteen years later in the Nazi Storm Troops
and the Nazi Movement in general. One might say that it was the
moment of a darkly occult and a sexual awakening of German youth.
The body with all its functions came into its own; the world of the
spirit did not come into its own, but it was discovered by people who
formerly would have denied its very existence.

In the provinces there was much less cynicism than in Berlin,
and values had not shifted with the same rapidity. Serious spiritual
efforts could only be expected in the smaller German towns. They
still enjoyed even now an atmosphere conducive to serious thinking,
Stefan George, whom experts consider Germany's greatest poet since
Goethe, lived in Bingen on the Rhine; Rudolf Steiner, the teacher for
whom occultism was becoming as precise a science as mathematics,
had settled just across the frontier at Dornach near Basle; Oswald

WISDOM IN DARMSTADT

Spengler, author of The Decline of the West, was pouring out his
pessimistic philosophy in voluminous tracts from a prussianized
Munich. None of them, however, had gained such a spectacular
success as Count Hermann Keyserling, who had just opened a
'School of Wisdom' in Darmstadt, the small capital of the former
Grand Duchy of Hesse. Keyserling's fame spread over the spiritual
horizon of Germany overnight, and this fame was due to his origins
and to his looks at least as much as to his uncommon philosophical
attitude. People compared his narrow eyes and high cheekbones with
those of Ghenghis Khan, and they talked of him as though he were
an Eastern autocrat. The name of the 'School of Wisdom', situated
conveniently in a former grand-ducal residence, impressed the simple
and amused the intelligent. This academy was said to promise the
delivery of spiritual products that would enable the pupils to climb
the ladder of a new human order. This new 'elite' was to absorb
Eastern and Western wisdom and thus to obtain a proper under-
standing of its own duties and powers. Slowly a new civilization
would come into being, replacing one that was founded on scientific
creeds and that was purely materialistic. This would be achieved
mainly by attaching a new value to old problems.

It all sounded most promising. It was the sort of school that would
appeal to eager intellectuals of post-war Germany. The future of the
school was not romantically left in the hands of fate; it was virtually
assured by the considerable and even sensational success which
Count Keyserling had just achieved with his Travel Diary of a Philo-
sopher, for this book was more widely read than either travel books
or books by philosophers. There was something irresistible in the
spectacle of a philosopher who, instead of brooding over books in his
study, travelled the world en prince. Count Hermann tried to draw
out the spiritual essence of most countries outside Europe, mainly in
Asia. He had absorbed the soul of nation after nation with magic
rapidity. Though the significant truths about those countries may
not always have fitted into the mould which the imperious Count had
shaped for them, the book still contained enough truth about India,
China, Japan, Hawaii and America to satisfy Germany's thirst for
knowledge.

The success of the two large volumes was not surprising. There had
always been a large public in Germany for new intellectual manifes-
tations. The disappointment caused by a lost war had produced both
mental hunger and the wi?h to escape everyday realities. Intellectual

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

achievement coupled with an aristocratic name was bound to exer-
cise a strong fascination over the citizens of the new Republic, in
which the glamour of a monarchic past was already beginning to be
remembered. Another reason for the great success of this book was
that the Germans themselves had not been able to travel for nearly
five years, and few nations travel with greater enthusiasm than the
German. Their love for travel is composed of a strong 'Wissens-
hunger', a thirst for knowledge, a romantic idealization of the Far-
away, and the worship of everything foreign, no matter whether it be
the columns of a Greek temple or the pattern of a Scottish tweed. The
German frontiers had remained more or less closed since 1914, and
the country had been reduced in size. The German mark was losing
its value, and travelling abroad was becoming a luxury that only the
very rich could afford. The word 'abroad' shone with a tempting
aura of its own. The exotic atmosphere of the Travel Diary, with its
descriptions of remote countries, supplied at the time a very real
need among a people thirsting for travel. You could not enter a
drawing-room without noticing on a table the two volumes of the
Diary 9 bound in black cloth, their paper showing all the poorness of a
product manufactured in a country in which the war had hardly
ceased to be a reality.

I, too, read the book, and felt stimulated by its sparkling thoughts
and daring conclusions. The author's dogmatic pronouncements and
his repeated contradictions antagonized and irritated me; but there
were enough new and surprising aspects of the spiritual to excite the
curiosity of any student of spiritual truth.

I decided to join the ' School of Wisdom*.

Ill

Count Hermann Keyserling comes from one of those Russo-
German families which lived on the Baltic between East Prussia and
Finland. Most of them were Russian citizens and spoke German with
a Slav accent. Count Hermann's English biographer, Mrs. Gallagher
Parks, traces her hero's ancestors back to the Middle Ages when
certain German nobles settled in those eastern provinces. One of
his ancestors, Caesar Keyserling, could pride himself on being one of
the closest friends of Frederick the Great; Count Hermann's own
grandfather was an intimate friend of Bismarck, and there were
family connections with Immanuel Kant pad Johann Sebastian Bach.

WISDOM IN DARMSTADT

A relationship of a different kind brought Tartar blood into the
family: Count Alexander, the friend of Bismarck, married a Countess
Cancrin whose mother, a Mouravieff, had Tartar blood in her
veins.

Hermann Keyserling was born on the family estate of Konno in
1880. He was given a very strict and secluded 'aristocratic' education
by private tutors. He hardly mixed with other boys till, after the
death of his father, he was sent at the age of fifteen to a school at
Pernau. He studied at the University of Dorpat; but the boisterous
life of youthful excesses was cut short by a duel in which Count
Hermann was seriously wounded. Keyserling himself tells us that
this experience turned him from an easygoing student into a pure
intellectual; and certainly he soon left Dorpat to take up more serious
pursuits at Heidelberg, where he plunged into the study of natural
sciences. He chose to study geology, as his grandfather Alexander
had done. His biographer aptly remarks that one might call Keyser-
ling a psychological biologist. KeyserlingVas not altogether satisfied
with his study of biology nor indeed with that of philosophy, which
in nine cases out of ten would become the spiritual haven of most
serious-minded German students. Keyserling's outlook was finally
shaped by Houston Stewart Chamberlain, a writer who, strangely
enough, had also a fundamental influence on the 'philosophy' of
Adolf Hitler and his Baltic 'Kuitur-Diktator', Herr Alfred Rosen-
berg. Keyserling came under the spell of Chamberlain's Foundations
of the Nineteenth Century, a book in the origins of which Richard
Wagner, a pseudo-mysticism, an English upbringing, and a
fanatical devotion to the Teutonic spirit of Bismarckian Germany,
played equally important parts. Chamberlain, who had married one
of the daughters of Richard Wagner, was then living in Vienna, and
in order to be near him, Keyserling went there to study. He lived from
1901 till 1903 in Vienna, where the influence of Chamberlain and the
Viennese * mystic' Rudolph Kassner moulded Keyserling into an
aesthete, an 'inactive dilettante'.

The following ten years were spent mainly between Paris, Berlin
and London; and the social life of these capitals of Edwardian
Europe played in Keyserling's life as important a part as private
studies, reading and preoccupation with the arts. The Paris and
London of those years must have been fairly full of young gentlemen
with impressive bank balances, undefined spiritual ambitions and
social pursuits. Slowly, hcrvever, Kant, Schopenhauer and Flaubert

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

replaced Mr. Chamberlain in Count Hermann's esteem; and this
inner readjustment, together with a great personal disappointment,
was responsible for Keyserling's first philosophical book, Das
Gefuege der Welt ('The World in the Making'). Keyserling began to
occupy himself with the serious sides of life, delivering a number of
lectures in Berlin and Hamburg and by these and his writings
obtaining a success in certain scientific circles in Germany.

In 1905, after the Russian Revolution, Keyserling believed he had
lost his fortune. By 1908, however, the fortune was restored and he
could settle down on the estate Raijkull, ' dividing his time between
his literary activities and the life of a Russian agricultural nobleman'.
In 1911 Keyserling set out on the momentous journey round the
world which was the material for his Travel Diary. He took a whole
year to complete the journey, and he worked on his diary till the
beginning of the war. He was not able to join the Russian army
during the war on account of his old wound, and these years were
spent at Raijkull, in 'the writing and rewriting of his book', while he
drowned 'his profound disillusion and discouragement in the depths
of self-analysis and spiritual self-control'.

The Russian Revolution finally deprived Keyserling of his prop-
erty, and when in 1918 he moved to Berlin he was entirely dependent
upon the results of his intellectual labours. A year later he married a
grand-daughter of Bismarck, Countess Goedela von Bismarck, and
his biographer remarks: 'This marriage is perhaps one of the clearest
proofs of a certain unexpected sense of reality which runs like a for-
eign element through the strain of mysticism and almost disorderly
imaginativeness which is Keyserling's. No choice that he could have
made could possibly have been happier.' She completes her account
of her hero's private life by mentioning his children: 'There have been
born of the marriage two boys who, whatever gifts they may develop
in maturity, already possess clearly defined and original personalities.'

Though the name of the magic carpet on which Count Hermann
Keyserling journeyed from obscurity to fame was, almost symbolic-
ally, Travel Diary of a Philosopher, this book was by no means his
first essay in literature. It was preceded by several geological mono-
graphs, and one or two philosophical books. In 1907 Unsterblichkeit
('Immortality') appeared, a book which Dean Inge described as the

WISDOM IN DARMSTADT

finest on the subject written in modern times. In a number of his
statements Keyserling shows that even at that early date he possessed
a better brain for detecting new truths in old wisdom than most living
people. Belief is, for Keyserling, the most central form of knowledge,
and religious belief its highest variety. Such a statement coming from
a man who fifteen years later still called himself a philosopher, was
surprising. Even more surprising is the statement that it is always
belief that creates reality. This suggests that those sections of the
German public, especially the younger ones, who were trying to find
truth outside mere intellectual knowledge, seemed justified in con-
centrating on 'the new light that shone' from Darmstadt.

It was not till 1919 that the success with the Travel Diary enabled
Keyserling to found an academy with the strangest of all names that
any teacher has ever dared to give to his own creation.

By 1922 the 'School of Wisdom' had achieved such fame that
people throughout Europe were asking themselves what exactly it
stood for. It was the continuation of a Philosophical Society formed a
couple of years earlier by Keyserling and sponsored by the former
Grand Duke of Hesse, Ernst Ludwig. Intellectual young Germans
flocked to Darmstadt; yet, as will be seen later, it was not so much
they who were responsible for the most striking aspect of the new
movement; it was rather the more conspicuous social world that
descended upon the quiet town in south-western Germany. For,
though there was a constant nucleus of activities in Darmstadt, they
did not reach their climax until the one or two yearly congresses,
called 'Tagungen'. A Tagung lasted a week, and was attended by
hundreds of people from all over the world. Officially it consisted of
lectures.

For Keyserling the school was to be ' a radiator of spiritual influence
with no institutional character but with international membership'.
This was absolutely in keeping with his ideas about himself. He did
not look upon himself as a scholar and a philosopher but as the
'apostle of a new spiritual era'. The fundamental idea of the school
was 'to deepen a man's nature, to readjust his intellectual point of
view'. The school tried to mould its pupils through personal in-
fluence rather than abstract teaching, and it aimed at showing its
pupils 'the eternal beyond the temporal'. Keyserling's idea was also

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

to make his followers take a new and stronger interest in things that
had interested them before, but that were losing their importance or
their attraction.

Keyserling was eager to create by degrees in society an 61ite class
that, by its higher intellectual and moral standards, would set a
potent example to the people at large. It was due to this conception
that Keyserling had an exaggerated opinion of English life and of the
English idea of the gentleman. When asked about the aims of the
school, he answered that it was ' an organism for transferring rhythm'.
Friendship, discussion, meditation were among the means for this
'rhythmical transference'.

It may be that Keyserling's ideas were not academic enough for his
German followers, accustomed to a more systematic method of
education. It may be that the quickness and the versatility of his intel-
lect bewildered people used to more comfortable methods of educa-
tion. Whatever the reason, it was obvious to me from the very begin-
ning that the school as it actually presented itself during the Tagung
hardly corresponded to its creator's high ideals. Even if there were
individuals who gathered from Keyserling enough spiritual know-
ledge to readjust their inner attitude towards life, the general im-
pression was less promising.

It was not difficult to guess what prompted many members to
come to the Tagung. The few hotels in the town were packed, and
at breakfast one imagined oneself sitting in an hotel de luxe in a
fashionable spa rather than in the modest hotel of a sleepy provincial
town. Certainly, during breakfast the names of Buddha, Plato and
Laotse formed the centre of most conversations; but they were
manipulated as though they belonged to social celebrities of the
moment.

Most of the morning was given up to lectures. I was impressed
by the names of the lecturers, whose addresses invariably maintained
the expected standard. The lectures illustrated Keyserling's ideas
with examples of Eastern and Western wisdom. Among the lec-
turers was the German sinologist, Richard Wilhelm, a man who had
spent thirty years of his life in China and who had translated some
of the profoundest Chinese thought into German. There was an
impressive German Rabbi, Leo Beck, whose presence at this gather-
ing showed that the organizers had been anxious not to give any

WISDOM IN DARMSTADT

signs of racial or religious prejudices. There was Leopold Ziegler, a
man with a searching mind and a tortured body. When, assisted
by his wife, he mounted the platform, the fight between spirit and
flesh and the victory of the former became apparent in a moving
way. But no speaker was more stimulating than Keyserling him-
self, who delivered a lecture almost every day, and who acted as an,
at times, impatient and autocratic 'spiritus rector' of the whole
Congress.

Platform and audience, however, seemed far apart, and the rays
cast from the one illumined the other but rarely.

Though the passionate personality of Keyserling focused the
general attention — at times even during the lectures of others — it
was mainly two white chairs covered with red silk that exercised a
magnetic influence over the eyes, and presumably the minds, of many
members of the audience. They occupied the centre of the front row,
and they were almost more responsible for the atmosphere during
the Tagung than anyone or anything else. They were the seats of
Ernst Ludwig and his consort.

In becoming the patron of Keyserling, Ernst Ludwig, the former
ruler of Hesse, the grandson of Queen Victoria, the brother of the
Russian Empress, the nephew, cousin or uncle of most of the
crowned or ex-crowned heads of Europe, continued the policy
which he had been pursuing even in the days before the war. Though
he was no longer the ruler of his country, he still lived in his Palace,
situated in a distinguished residential street in Darmstadt. His
cousin, the Emperor William II, is reported to have remarked one
day that, though Ernst Ludwig was his best friend, he was un-
doubtedly his worst soldier. By this criticism he probably meant
that he did not approve of the stories circulated about his cousin.
Some of them reported that Ernst Ludwig preferred milking cows
behind the trenches to attending meetings of his Staff, and that he
was leading in France an altogether more rustic life than the martially
minded Emperor considered in keeping with the standards of a
Royal prince. Yet even now the Grand Duke was more popular
with the citizens of the Hessian Republic than his cousin at Doom
had ever been with the citizens of his Empire. The Grand Duke was a
dilettante par excellence: he painted pictures, made beautiful em-
broideries, wrote poems and dramas of much feeling; he encouraged
new artists to come to work in Darmstadt; he was an amusing con-
versationalist and an altogether delightful oersonalitv. He was also

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

deeply interested in mysticism. It must have been attractive to this
alert and intelligent man to become the patron of a philosopher
who might one day develop into the spiritual teacher of a new Ger-
many. On the horizon of Ernst Ludwig's mind there may have
appeared the vision of another Grand Duke: Karl August of Weimar
and his protege Johann Wolfgang Goethe.

The Grand Duke never missed a lecture and, considering the time
of the year and the excessive heat, this alone was an achievement.
Though he was now only a private individual, the consciousness of
Royal presence and the atmosphere of Court could hardly have
been stronger in pre-war days. The people, who before a lecture had
been sitting about and chatting, would jump up from their seats like
soldiers the moment the ducal couple appeared in the doorway. The
Grand Duchess, by birth a member of one of the smaller princely
families, was a shy but stately lady, kind and rather self-conscious.
She used to arrive with ropes of pearls falling down to her knees,
but on her face there was the homely expression of a typical Hausfrau.
The ducal couple walked slowly along the path between the chairs.
All eyes followed them, and nobody uttered a word. Here and there
they would smile at people they knew. The Grand Duke liked
stopping between the rows, making jokes to friends. He was always
immaculately dressed in a double-breasted suit, with a winged collar
and a bow tie. and he approached the silk-covered chairs with the
easy elegance of a man who is used to making his entry under the
rapt eyes of hundreds of spectators. Only after the Grand Duke
and his wife had taken their seats would the rest of the audience
sit down.

VII

The Grand Duke and his consort were only partly, and in fact
passively, responsible for the courtly atmosphere during the Tagung.
This was created far more by the ladies and gentlemen who often by
their very clothes distinguished themselves in this philosophical
gathering. The men wore dark suits and stiff collars the excessive
height of which presumably corresponded to their own elevated
position. The dresses of their wives and daughters had an old-
fashioned correctness which brought visions of courtly procedure
and well-studied ceremonial. They were ladies and gentlemen for-
merly connected with the Court in official or private capacities, but
now left stranded and forlorn. They seemed, however, eager to follow

WISDOM IN DARMSTADT

their former master even in his spiritual footsteps, and so they spent
long mornings and afternoons fighting bravely against the heat and
the boredom of lectures. Beads of perspiration would appear on
their faces, and their heads would droop like those of weary travellers
journeying through a hot summer night in a third-class carriage.

There was apparently some logic in the presence of so many
members of the aristocracy. The Grand Duke was only one, and the
less important, reason for their enthusiasm for philosophy. More
important was the presence of Count Keyserling himself. Though
intensely intellectual and only half German, Hermann Keyserling
was a member of their caste. In his autocratic and self-centred mind
over and over again he displayed his social origin. While for the time
being the German aristocracy as a whole had lost its influence,
Keyserling the aristocrat was increasing his power as an individual.
He was becoming a vital force, and attained to his position without
sacrificing his aristocratic attitude or trying to flatter the new
regime. This was bound to impress the old but powerless aristocracy,
even though many members of it disapproved of Keyserling' s ad-
vanced ideas, and called him the 'Socialist' or the 'Red Count'. It
was very important, however, to most of them that Keyserling
seemed to be creating a new aristocracy: a new caste in which their
own ancient traditions would be invigorated by his spiritual reform.
For the old nobility there must have been something very satisfactory
in the promise of a new aristocratic order, essentially German,
which was likely to carry its influence far beyond the frontiers of a
diminished Fatherland.

The aristocratic world contrasted in appearance somewhat with
the smarter air of a number of visitors, mainly women, from Berlin,
Vienna and other capitals. There were also a few Americans for
whom the combination of philosophy and royalty must have been
irresistible. It was this world .that was most visible during the whole
Tagung. As the lectures proceeded, the eyes of the audience were
focused more and more on the two white chairs. It would have been
pleasant to meet some of these often cultured people had one
arrived in Darmstadt for entertainment. It was, however, somewhat
disappointing to young enthusiasts who, like myself, had not come
to Darmstadt for that purpose, but to be enlightened, uplifted or at
least instructed.

I realized on the first day that it would not be easy to find answers
to the various questions a great many of the younger generation
c 33

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

were asking themselves. The main difficulty in the way of a satisfac-
tory solution to our problems lay no doubt in ourselves. It con-
sisted in the impossibility of formulating the questions clearly.
Perhaps I should — reporter-wise — have had them ready beforehand,
expecting Keyserling to give unconditional and explicit answers.
Yet the problems themselves were not precise and it was not a
matter of intellectual curiosity. We wanted an indication as to a
right way of thinking, a right discipline of feeling. Some of us had
indefinite ideas on the necessity of celibacy. We had all dabbled in
Yoga and similar exercises, but we were vague about them; we pre-
tended that we knew more than we actually did, and we hoped that
someone would give us clear rules. We were too young to know that
general rules can be issued much more easily in a factory than in
such an assembly. Meditations were held for a certain group of
people; but meditations held collectively on hot summer days and
in European clothes seemed even to my inexperienced mind some-
what unconvincing. It appeared to me as though Keyserling was
trying to give us the very fare we were looking for. Yet somehow it
was impossible to break through the courtly apparatus of the
Tagung.

Nevertheless there was one piece of advice which remained alive
long after the Tagung was forgotten — that it was not the things and
the ideas in themselves that had to be changed but the accents we
put on them. One day I asked Keyserling what he really meant by
this phrase. The answer must have been so omnipresent in his mind
that, even without stopping in his walk towards the exit, and without
looking at me, he answered: 'We cannot solve problems by destroy-
ing them or by working them out in elaborate systems, but merely
by re-ordering their accents, by robbing them of their former weight.
If we begin to neglect a problem, minimizing its previous importance,
it will begin to disappear from our consciousness; it will soon die
and thus solve itself.' The conversation of no-one else gave me so
strongly the impression of written rather than spoken words: it was
as though the mouth could not follow the tremendous pace of the
brain and was forced to leave the words only half finished; they
were thrown into the listener's ear at a bewildering speed, and they
left behind the vision of a quite uncommon nervous energy.

WISDOM IN DARMSTADT

VIII

There was no means of escaping the atmosphere of the provincial
court. In pre-war days this courtly character must have been delight-
ful. Now, deprived of its significance, and placed in the midst
of a philosophical gathering, it had become quite irrelevant. The
social interludes, which were meant to establish the contacts of one
with another on a basis of deeper understanding, were in keeping
with the general character of the Tagung. Keyserling had been right
when he had planned these social gatherings. Unfortunately a great
many of the members put the accent on the outer framework only.
Most conversations held in the presence of women — and as usual
on such occasions there were many more women than men — only
rarely allowed one to come nearer to the understanding of the prob-
lems for the elucidation of which the Tagung had been organized.
They deteriorated into gossip, and ended generally with some
remarks about the wife of a powerful banker from Berlin. The ladies
taking part in a conversation would suddenly find it shocking that
the banker's wife appeared three times a day in different clothes
and, what is more, in clothes that had obviously come from Paris.
One's own mental accent became so focused on the lady from Berlin
that on the third morning even I could not help my attention wan-
dering in an effort to locate the lady and verify these accusations.

One night we were asked to a party by a very rich nobleman
whose house was famous for its magnificent collection of works of
art. In Germany collections of such a kind can never be seen unless
one knows the owner personally. It was a very rare occasion, and I
was grateful for the opportunity of seeing a masterpiece by Van
Eyck and a number of hardly less famous pictures and statues placed
in perfect surroundings. I expected to find great eagerness on the
part of the other members of the Tagung. With very few exceptions,
however, they were entirely absorbed in watching the arrival of the
Grand Duke and his wife, whose backs they had been admiring for
an almost unlimited number of hours in the last few days. And when
the handsome wife of the banker from Berlin arrived with ropes of
pearls more magnificent than even those of the Grand Duchess, the
topic of conversation seemed decided for the remainder of the
evening.

The picture of the Tagung would be incomplete without the men-
tion of an occasion at which Keyserling's ideal combination of

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

social intercourse and spiritual stimulation was to be realized at
last. It was the visit of the Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore, whose
European fame had just reached its zenith. In Germany he was con-
sidered one of the greatest poets of the age. Like myself, some of the
younger members of the Tagung had by now become critical and
hypersensitive to little details. In honour of Tagore the Grand Duke
issued invitations to a garden party in his hunting castle outside
Darmstadt. It was a hot sunny day, and the invitation was accepted
with enthusiasm. After a lovely walk through the old park, we had
tea in the castle. During tea a small incident took place which in my
hypercritical state of mind seemed to become symbolical of the
whole Tagung.

I had been introduced by a cousin of the Grand Duke to his two
sons, who were then still at school. We had tea together and were
joined later by several guests who were staying during the Tagung
at the Grand Duke's palace in Darmstadt. Among them was ' Auwi',
prince August Wilhelm, the fourth son of the Kaiser. My friend,
who was his cousin also, introduced me to the prince, remarking
that though by profession a sculptor I was very much interested in
Keyserling's teaching. The prince looked at me for a second or two
as though trying to find a suitable remark or to realize the meaning
of his cousin's explanation. Then he said: 'Oh, you are a sculptor.
A sculptor? Does that mean that you have to do so, so?' The last
words were accompanied by a gesture of both hands indicating the
movements of a hammer striking the chisel. It was presumably
the only way in which the prince was able to express his compre-
hension. As his face remained serious, I had no reason to suspect a
joke. My friend blushed for his cousin's remark, but for me it seemed
to sum up my personal impression of the Tagung. Even in later
years, whenever someone mentioned the name of Tagore, I used to
blush at the recollection of the prince, anxious to be agreeable to a
friend of his cousin, and trying hard with both hands to show his
comprehension of the profession of a sculptor.

After tea we went into the neighbouring fields, and grouped our-
selves on the slope of a hill, on the top of which stood Keyserling
and Tagore. Their dark silhouettes were sharp against the pale gold
of a perfect summer sky. The Indian poet was wearing long silk
robes, and the wind played with his white hair and his long beard.
He began to recite some of his poems in English. Though the
majority of the listeners hardly understood more than a few words —

WISDOM IN DARMSTADT

it was only a few years after the war, and the knowledge of English
was still very limited — the flush on their cheeks showed that the
presence of the poet from the East represented to them the climax
of the whole week. There was music in Tagore's voice, and it was a
pleasure to listen to the Eastern melody in the words. The hill and
the fields, the poet, the Grand Duke and the many royal and im-
perial princes, Keyserling and all the philosophers and philistines
were bathed in the glow of the evening sun. It was a very striking
picture.

CHAPTER II

EPISODES IN MODERN LIFE
Stefan George and Bo Yin Rd

Iwas beginning to wonder whether the mission of a teacher was to
give us final proof, or merely to act as a stimulant and to show
us that it is only ourselves who have the power of applying a new
teaching in our lives. Often even our daily life would act as such a
stimulant.

I had not a scholar's interest in metaphysical subjects and theo-
sophical or Buddhist schools attracted me as little as monasteries or
Eastern ashrams. And yet I was asking myself constantly the same
questions that most younger people around me seemed to be asking
themselves, and to which our ordinary knowledge could supply no
satisfactory answers. Was our earthly life a complete whole or was it
merely a stage in a much longer journey? Was the belief in karma1
and in reincarnation more satisfactory than that in the Paradise and
Purgatory of the Christian Church? Had our sex instinct to be
regulated according to some hidden plan, or to physical necessity,
or to conventions in which we had been brought up? Were our actions
the free expressions of our free will or merely the results of habit and
education? Ought we to follow the conventional ethics of our day
or try to discover ethics that might have a more spiritual significance?

Acquaintances who had hitherto appeared materialistic in out-
look suddenly seemed animated by the same spiritual urge.

One day during conversation at lunch in the house of a woman
who was known to me only as a popular hostess I happened to use
one of those silly adjectives such as 'heavenly' or * incredible'. My
hostess interrupted me suddenly, and said in a low voice so that
nobody else could hear: 'You should not use words that you cannot
possibly mean. I am sure you know that words have a deeper mean-
ing in themselves than the one which we thoughtlessly give them*.
I was impressed by her honesty; her remark was indeed the beginning

1 Karma — conditions into which man is born as the result of his good and
bad deeds during his former life on earth.

EPISODES IN MODERN LIFE

of a deep friendship which was cut short only by her death. In the few
years of our friendship I discovered that her own, at times extremely
successful, way of getting at the roots of things consisted in always
trying to avoid the use of words in their wrong sense. She never used
them irreverently, but was always anxious to remember that a word
is both a symbol and a centre of spiritual power in itself. I began to
watch myself and to be careful in the use of adjectives; the 'most
incredible' and 'heavenly' were eliminated from my vocabulary.
I no longer answered invitations by saying, 'I shall simply adore' to
come. I noticed that the feminine fashion of the exaggerated use of
adjectives — and not only of adjectives — was not confined to the
younger, frivolous set, but was equally popular with older and more
serious people.

In the following weeks, during which I was beginning to treat
words with some of the respect due to them, life became more real;
problems appeared simpler, and I seemed to see them in their right
proportions. It was as though I were becoming more honest. The
slipshod employment of words and the use of exaggerated expres-
sions put you into an atmosphere of artificiality, making the ground
on which you stand seem insecure.

It can hardly have been an accident that I came across the work
of Stefan George exactly at a moment when some of the lesser
mysteries of life were beginning to reveal themselves to me through
the medium of words. While I was staying in Germany, a friend gave
me for Christmas a book of poems by George. The binding, with its
faintly Gothic character, was self-conscious, the type and setting
reminiscent of William Morris; there was no punctuation, and the
use of capital letters was arbitrary. These external details made
reading difficult. In former days I should merely have skipped super-
ficially through the decorative pages: in my present state I was
absorbed from the very beginning; the poems impressed me so
deeply that I bought George's other four volumes; and I spent weeks
in a state of exhilarated study of George's poetry.

I was beginning to understand why the anagogic personality of
George was so much admired, nay worshipped, by some of the most
serious-minded Germans. They approached the poet in a spirit of
almost mystical veneration.

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

Stefan George, the descendant of peasants from Lorraine, the
son of an innkeeper in the Rhenish vineland, had been living for
years in an impenetrable seclusion. This was responsible for the many
fantastic stories circulated about him. The critics called him an
aesthete and a highbrow; and indeed there was little doubt that in
his earlier days he had exhibited a certain artistic precocity. He would
be mentioned by people — who knew little more than his name — in
connection with Rossetti, Oscar Wilde, Beardsley and William
Morris. An apocryphal story was told of George at a big dinner,
sitting behind a screen so as not to be seen by the other guests, and
consuming during the meal no more than three grapes. Gossip was
invented because hardly anyone knew or had ever seen George; in no
directory of any kind was his address or even the district in which
he lived to be found; he was enshrouded in mystery; he never com-
promised, or descended to the level indispensable to the attainment
of worldly success. George had never subscribed to any popular
movements; he had not belonged to any literary school; he had
always worked in a personal and independent way — but the number
of his admirers grew from day to day, and almost against his will.

George was a poet and nothing else. He did not try to be either
critic, dramatist, journalist or politician. He followed only the
commands of his Art, which he kept pure and free from all alien
elements. He considered that his mission as a poet was that which is
open to none but the poet : that is to uncover truths, to disseminate
wisdom and to create beauty. He was never unfaithful to these
principles, and this accounts perhaps for the prophetic quality of
many of his poems. It also explains a part of his influence upon the
more serious-minded sections of German youth. And yet neither
the subject matter nor the form of his poems was modern. They con-
tained, side by side, pagan sensuousness and classic severity of tone,
and they glittered with a richness of texture that induced superficial
readers to call him an aesthete. No-one since Goethe had possessed
such a mastery of the German language; nor had any other German
poet created more magnificent new words. His words always seemed
to give the only possible picture of that 'higher reality' which before
him had been known under many different names.

George was becoming his country's most important poet, sage and
teacher. Young Germany was finding in his poems a truth that had
hitherto been but dimly apprehended, and a stern, manly beauty that
contrasted strongly with the life around. «The irretrievable past had

EPISODES IN MODERN LIFE

not been replaced by a satisfactory present, and the lost war had
left behind a deep bitterness. The result was the growth among some
of the young men of a vague internationalism which, rarely creative,
was in the main limited to criticism and retrospect. Under George's
influence such positive values as 'friendship', 'earth', 'homeland',
'leadership' became desirable once again.

The small group of people who belonged to George's immediate
circle exercised a far wider influence than seemed justified by the
smallness of their number and their insignificance in the world. They
held no office; their names practically never appeared in the news-
papers; they were hardly ever heard of at internal congresses. Never-
theless, their spiritual superiority had a growing influence. A few of
them, such as Friedrich Gundolf, the professor of literature at the
University of Heidelberg, or E. Kantorowicz, lectured, and thus in-
fluenced youth directly. Others such as the critics, poets and histor-
ians, Karl Wolfskehl, Friedrich Wolters, Ludwig Klages, Berthold
Vallentin, Ernst Bertram, were felt through their writings and their
personal contacts.

George received but a very few people into his immediate circle,
but having once accepted a disciple, he shaped not only his intellect
but his whole character. He was, for all his artistic exclusiveness, not
a mere dreamer, and his influence touched all practical sides of life.
This saved his followers from that sentimental idealizing, which was
so typical of all intellectual efforts in Germany.

George's most lasting force lay in his poetry. Though many Ger-
mans had succumbed to it, George had not yet become a national
property like Goethe and Wagner. His claim to fame rests on his
purification and enrichment of the German language. Experts re-
garded this work as of an almost magical significance. Like most
modern languages, German had become cheapened. But the lan-
guage and the people of a country are so closely connected that the
cheapening of the one involves a similar deterioration of the other;
purification of the language can be followed by a subsequent and
automatic regeneration of the people, and George was fully conscious
of this fact. In his work of over forty years' duration he tried to give
back their language to the Germans. Many serious minded Germans
imagined that his legacy would solve many German problems more
easily than all manner of political programmes could do.

It was not George's poetry alone that had impressed the Germans
so deeply: it was also that inner attitude which can only be described

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

by the German word Haltung. The word does not exist in English.
The Englishman possesses an inner dignity by nature; in English the
term becomes therefore almost meaningless. In Germany this is not
so. Haltung, or the strength of one's poise, is such a rare phenomenon
that it is always impressive. George's attitude of proud seclusion, of
silence, of loyalty and devotion to his ideals, of avoidance of publicity,
of a stern responsibility towards his work — in short, the whole magni-
tude of his Haltung — impressed the Germans as something truly
superior. For forty years they had heard about the uncompromising
poet from Bingen on the Rhine, who had never given an interview;
who had never appeared on any public platform; who had never
published an article in a newspaper; who had never accepted the
titles or the invitations of an academy, a university or a government;
and whose Dantesque face seemed the very symbol of an inner
strength and of a pre-eminent Haltung.

For many of the younger men George had become a sort of ever-
present conscience urging us to live up to his high standards. Though
only a very few knew him; though by his very seclusion and distance
from ordinary life he had become to his followers almost an abstract
power, his purifying and dignifying influence was stronger than that
of those men we had been taught to admire. It is but rare in modern
life that spiritual influence becomes real without personal contact,
and merely through the power of the word and the Haltung of the
teacher.

Ill

Unfortunately, such is our mental laziness that even the noblest
influence begins to lose its stimulating power when confronted by
economic worries and by the constant rush of new impressions. Both
the enthusiasm and the impatience of youth make it difficult for it
to remain for long faithful to the same self-chosen message, and so
every new spiritual experience becomes only a passing stimulant.

But life went on creating excuses for new efforts. The purifying
influence which had unexpectedly come through the casual remark
at luncheon, and the acquaintance with Stefan George which fol-
lowed, were only two of various events which pushed me along new
paths.

The editor of a newspaper to which I was a contributor one day
handed me a slender volume, bound in red paper, and asked me
whether I would care to write a review of it. He thought that I might

EPISODES IN MODERN LIFE

be interested in 'that sort of thing*. One or two other people in the
editorial office had refused to write the review, and the editor himself
felt that he could not deal with it. The book had been sent personally
to the editor by its author, Felix Weingartner, the celebrated com-
poser and conductor. The editor had a greater admiration for Herr
Weingartner's musical gifts than for his spiritual and literary
activities, which left him slightly bewildered. The book was called
Bo Yin Rd, and I took it home to read.

The three syllables Bo Yin Ra meant nothing to me at the time,
but Herr Weingartner's name was a guarantee that some quality
might be expected. The book contained the story of the conversion
to a new creed of one of the most distinguished musicians of the day,
together with an enthusiastic account of that creed and of its founder,
hidden behind the exotic name Bo Yin Ra. Even before I had
finished the book I knew that I should not forget it easily, and I
bought several of Bo Yin Ra's own books. Instead of writing the
usual notice I asked the editor if I might write a review of four
columns, though even that length I thought at the time inadequate,
and I was therefore not surprised when within a year after I had
first come across the name of Bo Yin Ra I learned that his books
had become best sellers.

Most people were intrigued by the exotic name, while others were
puzzled by the semi-mystical and very modern pictures with which
some of the books were illustrated. It was plain from these pictures
that the author was also a painter of some distinction. It was im-
possible to verify who he was, and though Herr Weingartner wrote
to me at great length he would not disclose anything about the
identity of his hero.

There was no school, Church or movement that bore the name of
B6 Yin R§. His message was contained in his little books, read
with eagerness by thousands of Germans. The Book of the Living
God, The Secret, The Book of Man — all of them were variations
on a theme. They were meeting more than halfway the spiritual
needs of a disillusioned nation, eager to forget the misery of daily
life.

Bo Yin Ra's gospel might not have been accepted so willingly had
it not contained various statements that suggested in his case the

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

possession of esoteric knowledge.1 The promise or even the possi-
bility of such knowledge never fails to interest people. The more
serious student hopes to find in it the core of certain teachings,
hidden from the layman but apparently in existence since time im-
memorial; in the masses it evokes visions of supernatural power.
Bo Yin Ra claimed that his store of knowledge came from the same
source as did some of the most ancient wisdoms. In several publica-
tions he was referred to as a 'Master', and he was supposed to be in
constant spiritual communication with certain other 'Masters' who
transmitted their secret knowledge to him. These 'Masters' were
referred to as 'Sages of the East' or the 'Inner Helpers'.

Though it was impossible at the time to understand fully what all
such claims entailed, Bo Yin Ra at least seemed an honest man who
believed in the truth of his statements.

His teaching was neither new nor startling, but it was sound, and
it contained certain fundamental truths. Its main thesis was that we
can find true and lasting happiness only within ourselves, and that
we must abandon the search for it in the world without. The moment
we begin to listen with greater attention to ourselves we uncover
those spiritual powers that create happiness. Although happiness
was a definite command in Bo Yin Ra's doctrine, he did not base it
on any asceticism or self-denial, but on a sensible and deliberate
acceptance of life, on honest and decent living and on the absolute
elimination of fear.

B6 Yin Ra did not consider himself a new prophet or messiah, but
the 'mediator' between higher powers and man, who cannot find
happiness in life. His object was not to persuade people but merely
to stimulate those faculties in them that are needed for the establish-
ment of an inner harmony.

Bo Yin Ra's success was not surprising. In an existence with little
material security and with just as little hope for immediate improve-
ment, his gospel was bound to find many adherents. Most of the
other new gods — Freud with his sublimations and complexes, Keyser-
ling with his 'sense of life' and 'replacement of accents', Einstein
with his incomprehensible relativity, Spengler with his intellectual
pessimism, George with his poetic visions, Steiner with his startling
scientific perceptions — could not be enjoyed without intellectual
preparation. Bo Yin Ra was easy to understand. The style of his

'Esoteric — having a secret meaning. Esoteric teaching is only given to initiates
or specially prepared disciples.

EPISODES IN MODERN LIFE

books was almost that of books for children; no religious or intel-
lectual conversion was required; his kind of happiness could be
achieved by the rich and by the poor. Above all, he appealed to the
emotions. In a way Bo Yin Ra did for many Germans what Dr.
Frank Buchman tried to do ten years later for certain sections of the
British public.

It did not come as a surprise to me when I found out later that
Bo Yin Ra was a Bavarian painter with the prosaic name of Herr
Joseph Schneiderfranken.

Joseph Schneiderfranken was born in 1876 at Aschaffenburg in
Bavaria. After various manual occupations he found the means to
study painting in Munich and in Paris. He lived for a while in Greece,
married, became the head of a large family, and settled down in
Switzerland. He did not begin writing till he was forty, and he based
his whole teaching solely on personal experience without any relation
to existing doctrines or religions. He claimed that his name was not
arbitrary, but that it was given to him by his ' Masters' for reasons
connected with its esoteric meaning.

Though the majority of his admirers suspected behind his name a
rather picturesque mystic, they responded in the first instance to
that honest and unsophisticated ring in his words that never fails to
appeal to the expectations common in all men. Even in his appear-
ance Bo Yin Ra inspired confidence. He was big and heavy, rather
rough cut, of peasant features and yet of gentle expression. One
easily believed that he loved few things better than climbing high
mountains, planting trees in his garden, or performing manual work.

In the artificial, hectic life of post-war Germany the simple message
of Bo Yin Ra was like a refreshing breeze. It satisfied certain emotions
that had not found realization in any of the other creeds. We all
have a first awakening in life when we turn away from our youthful
egotism and feel the desire to be decent and unselfish, to help others
and to create harmony within. B6 Yin Ra appealed to those instincts.

But such instincts soon lose their power if the foundations of the
message that satisfies them are solely emotional. After a period of
enthusiasm I felt, like many others, that Bo Yin Ra's doctrine was
of too general a kind and that it did not satisfy the intellectual thirst,
An inner transformation that touches the emotions without affecting
the intellect cannot last.

Nevertheless I was grateful for the laziness of my colleagues which
brought me into touch with the Bavarian peasant painter Bo Yin R§,

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

And this is the last incident. A friend of mine who was the legal
adviser of an old mercantile firm asked me one day to come over to
Hamburg, where he lived, to advise him as to the production of a
new monthly review which his firm had decided to publish. I thought
there was some misunderstanding: I could hardly imagine myself
the right person for a job that would require knowledge of finance
and economics.

Nevertheless on the following Saturday I took the train to Ham-
burg, and by lunch time I was sitting between my friend and the
owner of the firm. Before long I realized that the review was to be
dedicated to 'cultural, literary and artistic matters', and that I was
to become one of the three editors. The task seemed interesting and
I accepted the offer.

After two numbers of the review had appeared, its owner decided
that it could not fulfil its purpose in its present form. It was meant to
appeal to serious-minded people, who had grown tired of the usual
academic and literary monthly publications produced mainly to
satisfy the vanity of their contributors and editors. The review had
therefore deliberately to deal even with thos subjects that most
people still called supernatural, and the proprietor considered that
the right treatment of these matters might disclose more truth than
had the conventional methods hitherto employed.

An exciting correspondence now began with new collaborators,
and the review in consequence included articles about the more
serious side of graphology and astrology, symbolism in ancient art,
the relationship between religion and language; it also published
fiction in which the invisible background of life was seriously treated.
As far as editorship was concerned, we were all amateurs; the review
was amateurish, and it changed its face almost from number to
number. Most of our decisions as to the contents were based on
guesses, and yet the review's circulation grew with each month of
its publication; and though it received much abuse, it inspired some
praise from unexpected quarters.

It is only to-day that I comprehend why we introduced super-
natural matter into the review. The obvious reason was, of course,
the apparent demand of our readers. The main reason had a more
selfish origin, for the three of us felt that we could come nearer to
grasping truth only if we were forced to deal with certain problems

EPISODES IN MODERN LIFE

in a more serious manner than we had done before. The new pro-
fessional responsibilities forced us to order, read, accept, refuse and
at times even write articles on subjects that dealt more with the back-
ground than with the obvious things of life, with hidden rather than
with visible connections. Our professional preoccupation with these
subjects disclosed certain truths that had hitherto been hidden from
us.

At first the directors and presumably most of the many employees
of the firm looked at the new attempts of their 'boss' with suspicion
and bewilderment. At the end of a few months most of them read the
review. Many of them approached the editors with questions which
showed how deeply interested they were in the problems with which
it dealt.

The recorded experiences of the last few years were perhaps nothing
more than unimportant episodes. Nevertheless they seemed to sug-
gest to me that even an apparently insignificant event has its meaning,
and that it may help us to perceive truth no less than do the larger
events of our lives. Each experience opens up a new path, just as
each teacher acts as a new stimulant, and it is by no means merely
restlessness or lack of faith that compels us continually to try to
travel along new roads.

CHAPTER III
OCCULT TRUTH

Rudolf Sterner

I go back now to the days of the war.
I was a student in Warsaw, which was then occupied by the
German troops. One day a German officer told me a most unusual
story. He had been suffering from a rather exceptional illness of
which he had only quite recently been cured. His affliction was a
form of second sight which operated in one particular direction.
Baron V. was the descendant of an old family, was a scholar, and a
traveller. He was a member of a flying corps on the Western Front.
Every time his colleagues were ordered on a flight Baron V. could
foresee exactly who would return and who would be killed. On several
of these occasions he communicated his forebodings to his superior
officers, and each time his presentiment was borne out by the event.
Baron V.'s situation became unbearable: the nervous strain produced
by this gift of prophecy increased to an alarming extent, and he antici-
pated a breakdown. He decided that if he were to stay in the service he
must rid himself of his fatal talent. He wrote to a friend at home and
was advised to see an Austrian, a certain Dr. Rudolph Steiner, who
lived in Berlin, and who was said to possess extraordinary powers.

Dr. Steiner was the leader of a movement known as Anthropo-
sophy. He was not a physician but was reported to be a man of
learning and scholarship. Though Baron V. had become rather
sceptical, he was feeling so worried that he telegraphed to Dr. Steiner,
and two days later he took the short leave he had been promised and
left the front for Berlin.

He drove from the station straight to Dr. Steiner's flat, where he
was shown without delay into a big sitting-room. In his frock coat
and his large black bow tie Dr. Steiner suggested both a scholar and a
poet; his face with its deep-set eyes was expressive, but his manner was
simple and quiet. A faint and pleasant accent betrayed his Austrian
origin. He gave Baron V. no promises, but he advised him to prac-
tise certain mental exercises which he thought would be helpful.

RUDOLF STEINER

OCCULT TRUTH

Baron V. had to admit that the natural manner of Dr. Steiner had
impressed him. He had never read any of Dr. Steiner's publications,
but he left Berlin with a suitcase filled with them, and read some of
them on his way to the front. Though they seemed less simple than
the manner of their author had led him to expect, Baron V. was
struck by their logic and their scientific precision, and it appeared
to him that they were distinguished by these attributes from the
generality of writings on occult subjects. Baron V. began the mental
exercises immediately, and after a short time his second sight
disappeared.

Had Baron V. remained only a casual acquaintance, whose trust-
worthiness had not been tested, I might have considered this story
apocryphal. In repeated contacts stretching over many years, how-
ever, I have never found any reason to doubt his truthfulness.

The man, who had meant nothing to me until then, was now
suddenly constantly talked about in my presence. When I visited
Germany after the war, it was almost impossible not to hear
the name of Rudolf Steiner. Violent attacks and 'revelations' were
appearing in many newspapers — not concerned with scholarly sub-
jects but with politics. The authors of these articles were mostly army
officers and politicians, and the commonest accusations held Rudolf
Steiner responsible for one of the biggest German defeats, and thus
for the death of thousands of soldiers. I found it by no means easy
to find my way through this labyrinth of statements and counter-
statements.

What was the crime that put the scientist and scholar Rudolf
Steiner into the very centre of a military-political battle? Jules Sauer-
wein, the distinguished editor of the Paris Matin, summed up these
accusations when he began an interview with Steiner with the follow-
ing words: 'Do you know that your enemies say that, if it had not
been for you, neither the German Chief of Staff nor the German
Headquarters would have lost their heads and consequently the
Battle of the Marne?'

Steiner had indeed been on terms of intimate friendship with Frau

von Moltke, the wife of General von Moltke, the German Chief of

Staff, for many years. He did not know the general intimately, and

yet he was accused of having influenced Moltke's decisions in the

D 49

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

first weeks of the war, and was thus made responsible by many people
for the overwhelming defeat of the German armies. The accusers
spread legends that he had exercised his influence over Moltke and
Frau von Moltke through mediums and in even more sinister ways.
As both Moltke and his wife admitted that they had the highest
regard for Steiner, the stories about his influence over them were
believed even in responsible quarters. The truth became known only
later, when Moltke's Memoirs appeared and when, after the collapse
of the German Reich, Steiner felt entitled to publish all the evidence
of his connection with Moltke. Only then was it realized that Steiner
had not seen Moltke during the preparations for the Battle of the
Marne, and that the two men never spoke of purely military matters.
The truth was that the Emperor William in one of his irresponsible
moods withdrew his confidence from Moltke and that the Chief of
Staff was left in bewildering uncertainty as to his own position. In
her anxiety Frau von Moltke begged Steiner to go and see her hus-
band, who felt the necessity of some spiritual comfort. Steiner went
to Coblenz to see Moltke, and the two men spent several hours in a
philosophical conversation. This meeting became known. No officer
in the German Army liked the idea that the Chief of Staff should
spend important hours in mystical conversation with a philosopher,
and the fact that he had done so was in itself sufficient to provide
the calumniators with their material.

These attacks were almost all the news of Steiner that I could glean
from the daily press. Yet the newspapers were no longer the only
source of information. Though my interest in Steiner was still
detached, I met more and more people who knew or were studying
Steiner's teachings. His followers seemed to belong to nearly all
professions: there were engineers, doctors, artists, journalists, busi-
ness men, theologians. Whilst the followers whom I had met at the
* School of Wisdom' at Darmstadt had treated spirituality rather as
a topic of smart conversation, the followers of Steiner were serious,
and many of them seemed experts in the most varied subjects. While
the majority of Keyserling's followers seemed to have read only his
Travel Diary, the majority of the people whom I met in connection
with anthroposophy appeared to have read a great many of the
more difficult of Steiner's books.

Steiner's teaching was evidently the most widespread and, by the
quality of its followers, the most important of its kind on the
Continent.

OCCULT TRUTH

III

Rudolf Steiner was born in 1861 at Kraljevic, a small town within
the Habsburg Monarchy on the frontier of Hungary and Croatia.
His father had formerly been in the employment of a Count Hoyos,
but had afterwards become stationmaster at a small provincial
station. The boy spent his childhood not only in the fields and woods
near the railway line but also in everyday contact with such realities
as trains, timetables, and the mechanics of earlier telegraphy. At
first he was educated partly by his father, partly at the local school.
The high school his father chose for him was a so-called 'Real
Schule', and this meant that mathematics and the sciences were
emphasized much more than were the classics.

From his earliest days the boy was given up to the contemplation
and enjoyment of inner sensations as much as to external pleasures,
and he was trying to understand the background of life through a
fuller knowledge of nature. He was gaining that knowledge through
the usual channels and through a form of observation which in later
years he was able to diagnose as second sight. The boy felt dimly
that it was not 'normal' to view the world in such a way, and he
tried to fight against his visions. The study of mathematics reassured
him, however, and in geometry he experienced for the first time the
existence of a real world which is not visible to the bodily eye. The
triangle he learned about in geometry was not a particular triangle
that he himself might draw but the essence of all triangles. This ideal
triangle could be seen with the 'inner eye', but could not be repro-
duced, and this absolute idea of a geometrical figure showed the boy
that it was not wrong to 'see' things which are not visible to our
physical sight.

On leaving school, he began to study at the University of Vienna,
but as his parents were too poor to help him he had to support him-
self by giving lessons. In later years he was grateful for this necessity.
As it happened, most of his pupils had to be trained in classics; and
Steiner, who was studying natural sciences and mathematics, was
forced to go through the whole of a classical education. Through an
accidental meeting with an aged expert on Goethe he stepped into
the world of literature and philosophy, and these subjects were added
to mathematics and the sciences. During his years in Vienna he
seldom worked for fewer than fifteen hours a day; and he had
trained himself to do with only a few hours' sleep.

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

Even after he had taken his degree Steiner went on studying both
his old and his more recent subjects, and he was still earning his
own living by giving lessons, by writing articles in periodicals, and
later on by giving lectures. His thorough scientific education and his
preoccupation with Goethe enabled him to accept a commission
for editing the latter's scientific works, and this subsequently pro-
cured him a much-coveted situation at the famous Goethe-Archive
in Weimar, where he was put in charge of Goethe's scientific writings.

During these days an incident took place which was to leave a
very deep impression on Steiner. This was his meeting with Nietzsche.
Frau Foerster-Nietzsche, the philosopher's sister, invited Steiner to
reorganize her brother's private library, and Steiner spent many
weeks of absorbing work at the Nietzsche-Archive. This spiritual
intimacy with Nietzsche culminated in the one and only meeting
between the two men.

An understanding — if any — between them could only be
achieved on a plane where material incidents play no part. Nietzsche's
name was at that time one of the most famous in European letters,
and Steiner entered Nietzsche's room in a state of intense excite-
ment. It was in the afternoon and a soft light fell upon the man
lying on a sofa. His eyes were wide open and he was staring at the
young man at the door. Steiner could see at a glance that the man
with the vast forehead and the sad eyes almost covered by his thick
eyebrows no longer beheld the world around him. Yet Steiner did
not feel that he was confronted with a man who was, soon after-
wards, to die insane. The picture of the resting giant who had aban-
doned the world of physical realities had moved Steiner deeply in
more ways than one. Later he described his impression of that meet-
ing in the words: 'His eyes were fixed upon me but they did not find
me; their blankness seemed to rob my own eyes of their normal
power of sight.' Steiner believed that now, released from the necessity
of physical contact with Nietzsche, he could behold and meet him
in a purely non-material world.

Already at the age of thirty-six Steiner had formed his conception
of the world. He was no abstract philosopher but a realist brought
up on science. Spirit was for him not something outside nature, but
something within it. Man was the only being that could act, feel
and think in full consciousness of what he was doing. But Steiner
demanded from man that he should use these faculties to view the
world not from an intellectual but from a spiritual centre. This

OCCULT TRUTH

would disclose the hidden powers that direct life. He never tried to
approach those powers through unconscious trance or exaltation —
the practice of most people possessing supernatural gifts. All visions
obtained in occult experience had to be controlled by full conscious-
ness, and Steiner was anxious that the connection between occult
and our common experiences should be established in a purely
objective way. Thus he was striving towards a knowledge that would
be deeper than any knowledge offered by modern science. Hitherto
it had only been found scattered here and there in various religions
and in ancient and mediaeval secret doctrines.

Steiner's road to the final establishment of his knowledge led
through an association with Theosophy when he became Secretary-
General of the German section of the Theosophical Society. The
theosophical idea of the reincarnation1 of the 'World Teacher', in
the body of the young Indian boy Jiddu Krishnamurti, compelled
Steiner in 1913 to adopt an antagonistic attitude that forced the
Theosophical Society to expel him. In the eyes of Annie Besant and
Charles Leadbeater, as well as in those of most theosophists,
Krishnamurti was to become the vehicle for a reincarnated Christ.
For Steiner it was sinful to claim authority for anyone solely on the
grounds of reincarnation. Besides, he believed that Christ could
descend to earth only once and that the expectation of a ' second
coming' of this kind was mistaken. He had the greatest contempt
for any amateurish or flippant treatment of the belief in karma and
reincarnation, and he saw such treatment in the Krishnamurti affair.

When Steiner's association with the Theosophical Society ceased,
the time came to establish his own doctrine — anthroposophy — as a
separate teaching. This creed had for years been held by a distinct
section of the German Theosophical Society. The word 'anthropo-
sophy' means 'wisdom under the aspect of man'. The name appeared
for the first time in an English book of the sixteenth century by
Thomas Maughan, but it seems that Steiner took it from a book
by Immanuel Hermann Fichte, the son of Johann Gottlieb Fichte,
the philosopher. In a short timej the meagre beginnings developed
into the vast Anthroposophical Society, with its thousands of mem-
bers all over the world, and with activities ranging from purely

1 Reincarnation : Eastern doctrine of the rebirth of the soul in a new body.

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

occult and religious study to work in scientific laboratories and art
studios.

Steiner's own activities were ever increasing. Besides giving lec-
tures and teaching private pupils, he was not only preparing the
establishment of the headquarters for the society, but also writing
plays and experimenting in various artistic media.

Steiner's leading idea was still that truth can best be proved
through physical things. Though he demanded that ordinary
experience be always transformed into an act of thought, he was
antagonistic to abstract thought. In fact he disliked the word
'thought' and only used the word 'thinking'. He repudiated the usual
method of abstract thought in which one becomes so absorbed by
the object that one forgets that one is thinking. He wanted the thinker
to remain conscious all the time of what he was doing. And he wanted
man to think in 'pictures' instead of in abstractions.

Such a process can best be explained by a comparison with
Plato's ideas. Plato was the last great representative of an epoch
which had the gift of 'seeing' the world in visions. In the words of
Edward Schure, the French writer and mystic, the Greeks had from
earliest times 'an intuitive awareness of the direct and intimate
communion that exists between the outer life of the world and the
inner life of the soul. The Greek genius did not separate the human
soul from the cosmos, but conceived them as an organic whole. . . .'
The images that were evoked during a vision were not thoughts but
spiritual pictures called by a later period 'Platonic ideas'. It was only
Plato's pupil Aristotle who began to think of the world, instead of
'seeing' it. While Plato was the great Greek 'seer', Aristotle was the
'thinker' of truth. Plato cared for truth as contained in spiritual
ideas, whilst Aristotle was concerned with truth as expressed in the
physical world.

No-one expressed that difference between the two philosophers
more strikingly and yet more simply than Raphael, who perceived
their individuality with the peculiar clarity of genius. In his picture of
'The School of Athens' he painted Aristotle pointing down towards
the earth, and Plato pointing up towards the heavens.

Steiner, as we shall see later, tried to combine their wisdom — by
assimilating truth as a spiritual reality and by translating it after-
wards into physical reality.

Though Steiner had a number of personal pupils, he never tried
to impress upon them his individual knowledge, and he gave his

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personal opinions only when asked for them. Though he never
imposed his teaching, he answered every question put to him.

At his lectures he spoke without notes. Generally he focused his
attention on those listeners whom he could help in particular, and
his whole lecture would be adjusted to those special requirements.
During his busy life Steiner had been in touch with almost all classes
of people. He had lectured to socialistic workmen and to members
of the aristocracy; to the clergy and to scientists; he had been the
friend of many leading German and Austrian philosophers and
scientists, and he had never lost contact with everyday life. But
both his new knowledge and his increasing power had left him free
from worldly ambition.

Yet few people had so many enemies as Rudolf Steiner, and this
becomes comprehensible when one recalls the revolutionary character
of his teaching. He claimed to have a deeper understanding of life, of
the sciences and of religion than have other men. Though his knowl-
edge was often either unknown or unintelligible to many representa-
tives of the learned professions, most people who had troubled to
study anthroposophy accepted Steiner's views. Those who fought
against him had never bothered to study his message, and they
simply repeated the distorted versions of it that they read in the
newspapers.

Antagonism caused uneasiness to Steiner only in so far as the
spreading of his doctrine was hindered thereby. His enemies accused
him of spiritual fraud, or of being a Jesuit, or taunted him with being
a converted Eastern Jew. His most private life, that of a very unselfish
character, was defamed and, though he never spoke of it, he must
have suffered deeply from so many malignant slanders.

To Steiner himself his unusual gifts were so much a part of his
very nature that he no longer considered them in any way extraor-
dinary, and his natural modesty was never affected by them. Once
he foretold with uncanny precision an intimate detail in the private
life of one of his friends, and when the prediction proved correct
his friend exclaimed enthusiastically: 'It is really wonderful that
you should see this.' 'Wonderful?' answered Steiner; 'you should not
think of it like that; one may or may not see such things.'

One of the most reliable authorities to quote with regard to

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Steiner's strange powers is Dr. Friedrich Rittelmeyer, one of the most
distinguished pre-war preachers in Berlin and a man of profound
scholarship and unquestioned moral integrity. When at a mature age
he came into touch with Steiner's teaching, he possessed all the
equipment necessary for a study of it. Nevertheless he spent ten
years studying anthroposophy before finally accepting it. He con-
fessed later that he was quite ignorant of all occult things and that
he approached them with great scepticism.

Rittelmeyer noticed how much Steiner's ease in using his occult
gifts had grown in the course of time. 'In earlier years,' says Rittel-
meyer, 'it seemed to me that when Steiner was giving advice to
people he liked to sit where he would not be obliged to face the light.
When he began to use his faculties of spiritual sight one noticed a
certain deliberate adjustment of his being, often accompanied by a
lowering of the eyes. ... As the years went on I noticed this less
and less, and finally not at all. ... It was as if both states of con-
sciousness, that of sense perception and of spiritual perception,
were for him, freely and naturally, one beside the other.'

In the opinion of experts clairvoyance is a natural gift like a talent
for painting or a fine voice, and is therefore quite independent of all
other characteristics. One may have the gift of seeing events hundreds
of miles away, without being able to understand the most simple
objects around one.

Humanity always believed in clairvoyance. One of the most
characteristic examples of clairvoyance, or rather of one of its forms
known as mantles, accepted and venerated as a divine gift, is to be
found in the oracle of Delphi. The priestesses or rather pythonesses
were women with clairvoyant gifts and, though even in the ancient
days there were often cases of deliberate fraud, there were many
examples of genuine visions and predictions of a clairvoyant kind.
It was not only the masses who believed in the genuineness of the
occult visions obtained by a Pythian. Even such thinkers as Pytha-
goras and Plato acknowledged the institution at Delphi, and con-
sidered the 'divine madness' (furor divinus) as the highest and most
direct means of obtaining knowledge, and the logical and positive
Aristotle admitted that there is a science of 'spiritual vision'.

Occultists believe in the existence of three different kinds of
clairvoyance: hereditary, karmic and conscious. Hereditary clair-
voyance is a gift inherited from our ancestors; karmic1 clairvoyance

1 See footnote, p. 38.
56

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is transmitted from our own previous incarnation. Though they are
both gifts handed down to the owner and not created by himself,
karmic clairvoyance has been consciously developed in a previous
incarnation. The most important form of clairvoyance is that which
is trained in our present life and in full consciousness.

Rudolf Steiner claimed, from the very beginning, to possess
karmic clairvoyance. Certain incidents in his later life point to the
fact that he may also have suspected the remains of an hereditary
clairvoyance which we sometimes possess without knowing it. The
moment Steiner saw that the occult world was a scientific certainty
to him, he strove towards the development of conscious clairvoyance.
If he were to penetrate through material things into a spiritual
Beyond merely because he possessed gifts he could not account for,
he could not claim scientific justification for his results. Even the
possibility of such a clairvoyance had to be eliminated.

Nothing destroys such a gift so thoroughly as indulgence in wine
or other strong drink. Many stipulations made by religious sects
in regard to wine are based partly on that fact. Wine leads man to
a lower state of consciousness. Hence the drinking of wine was part
of the ancient mysteries of which the aim was to disclose the next
stage of human consciousness.

The consciousness of the Greeks was, according to others besides
Steiner, of a dream-pictorial character. Life was 'seen' in pictures,
of which Plato's 'ideas' are the most perfect expression. In the Chris-
tian era man's consciousness descended from the visionary to the
intellectual. The Greeks could reach such a consciousness only in the
mysteries. This difference of consciousness is best illustrated by the
difference between Apollo and Dionysos. In the words of Edward
Schure 'Apollo knows everything, and when he speaks it is in the
name of his Father (Zeus). Dionysos knows nothing, but is every-
thing, and his actions speak for him'. In the mysteries the wor-
shippers of Dionysos gave themselves up to the enjoyment of wine
and they thus descended to an intellectual and therefore earthly
perception of the world. Thus the identification with Dionysos
disclosed the coming stage of their evolution.

The first Greek who consciously perceived and acted on this was
Aristotle. Without losing himself in the orgy of the mysteries he
found the means for an intellectual understanding of the world. He
was able to represent the world not in visions and ideas but in
thoughts. It was not surprising that the intensely intellectual scholar-

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ship of the Middle Ages considered Aristotle one of the greatest
men, if not the greatest, of all times.

Steiner believed that Jesus Christ did for the whole of humanity
what Moses did for the Jews and Aristotle for the Greeks: He gave
it the new earthly, intellectual consciousness. 'The movement of
humanity,' says Edward Schure, 'to the Christian era offers us the
double spectacle of recoil and progress. On one side, the gradual
loss of vision and of direct communion with the forces of nature . . .
on the other, the active development of intelligence and reason,
resulting in man's material domination of the world. Vision con-
tinues to be cultivated by a chosen few But vision and the faculty

of divination diminish in the human race as a whole. . . .' From now
onwards such knowledge as hitherto could only be found in mysteries
had become a reality through the existence and the teaching of
Christ. Wine could be drunk by everyone. Steiner said in one of his
books: 'The true life of Jesus was the actual happening, historically,
of what before Him had only happened in initiation. All that up
till then had been shrouded in the secrecy of the temple, was through
Him to be displayed to the world in poignant reality. The life of
Jesus is thus a public confirmation of the mysteries.'

In the days before the coming of Christ wine was said to hinder
all higher spiritual knowledge. When an orthodox Jew married a
Jewess only water was drunk at the ceremony, but otherwise — wine.
The occult gifts had to be preserved within the race, but in union
with a stranger the key to higher truth had to be destroyed. When
at the wedding at Cana Christ changed water into wine He meant
to show, according to Steiner, that from now onwards everyone
could receive the higher knowledge and enter the kingdom of heaven.
No longer was it necessary to drink nothing but water and only to
marry members of the same race. One might drink wine and one
might marry an alien. In fact, Christ insisted that people should
no longer marry representatives of the same blood. All men were
brothers to Him. Steiner believed that the period in which men were
permitted to drink wine without damaging their higher powers of
perception lasted as long as the influence of Christ's earthly life was
still felt directly in the world. From then onwards wine again
destroyed in man the faculties essential to a clear vision of the
spiritual world, as against vague, intuitive impressions.

Steiner indulged for a short time in an excessive consumption of
wine, and at the end of this period any possibility of hereditary

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clairvoyance was destroyed. After that experiment he never touched
alcohol again. When in later years he accepted private pupils the
main condition he always laid down was that they were never to
drink wine.

The most important form of clairvoyance is, as we have seen, the
conscious. How can it be achieved?

Even conscious clairvoyance requires a natural disposition. In
the arts, such as poetry and painting, strict adherence to rules will
not compensate for lack of native talent. And so with occult powers.
This applies not only to individuals but also to whole nations.
Certain people and certain nations are more gifted in this respect
than others. We find the gift particularly common among the mem-
bers of very pure races, and of families who have frequently inter-
married, and thus we find it among royal and very ancient
families. The island character of Great Britain has been responsible
for intermarriage through the centuries, and its damp climate is very
propitious to a natural, inner vegetative power like clairvoyance.
In such a climate inner faculties can grow more readily than in a
drier climate. The climate enhances not only the gift of the British
for second sight; it is also responsible for their faculty for seeing life
in pictures rather than thinking of it. The Germans think of life —
this is the reason for their love of theories and abstractions. The
British, who 'see' life as a reality, hate theory and premeditation.
Not thought but visual memory is their strength, and clairvoyance
is seeing and not thinking.

The main exercises for the development of clairvoyance have
to be done when we go to sleep, and in the morning when we wake.
The moment at which we go to sleep the physical body is left
inanimate; the spiritual T can now go into space. This has to be
done consciously the moment before sleep actually descends upon
us. At this moment man's spiritual forces, which can manifest them-
selves normally only through the physical body, are freed. Now
they can loose themselves into the world outside, into the universe.
Now is the moment for the human ego to identify itself with the
world outside; to get into it; to learn about it; to see its working, its
spiritual instead of its merely material realities. Now has the moment
come when we can gather occult knowledge of the world outside
ourselves. This process of getting 'outside' the body and entering

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into space has definite cosmic laws and limitations, and depends
entirely upon the stage of our occult development. Self-deception
is here particularly frequent, and people often assume that their
spirit has reached far more distant spheres than it actually has.
These spheres are based on astronomic distances.

According to occult knowledge, the first real attainment of the
ego is a penetration into space up to the sphere of the Moon; the
next stage is penetration up to Mercury; the next one reaches Venus;
the one after that the Sun. As far as to the sphere of the Sun the ego
penetrates space in its personal form; it still carries its memories.
After the fourth sphere comes the penetration to Mars. Between
the Sun and Mars the ego loses its self-ness; from now on it becomes
impersonal. This fifth sphere is the one that Buddha called nirvana,
and Buddha's teaching is experience gathered in the fifth sphere.
It is bliss without personality.

For the occultist who is consciously trying to break down all
barriers of spiritual knowledge, clairvoyant penetration does not
end in the land of bliss. The ego can go farther than into nirvana.
In nirvana it had lost its personality and has become pure spirit.
From now on it can become creative and its powers become focused
on its future reincarnation. The sixth stage brings it to Jupiter, and
here the ego gathers the necessary creative faculties. In the next stage,
of Saturn, it prepares its personality for its next earthly incarnation.
In the last stage, that of the fixed stars, the ego has definitely formed
the new personality. Only one who can penetrate to the stage of the
fixed stars can 'see' the 'personality' of his future reincarnation.

The next exercises are done on waking up in the morning. Our
ego is then returning into its bodily consciousness, and the moment
when the exercise is done is the very last moment before the actual
awakening. It is that at which the ego takes final possession of its
body. Our ordinary daily consciousness is not awake yet, and our
spirit is nearest to our microcosm. Now we are quite close to the
many phenomena that work within ourselves. Now is the moment
when we can perceive the inside of the shell: our physical organs, their
functioning, their interconnections, the reasons for their existence,
their powers and their weaknesses. Now we are in a state when we can
identify ourselves with our organs and our bodily functions, when we
can gather occult knowledge of ourselves. But now again this has to
be done with the fullest consciousness and in the infinitesimally short
space of time that exists between being asleep and being awake.

OCCULT TRUTH

Both the morning and the evening exercises develop naturally
out of certain meditations done regularly before going to sleep and
after waking. Both forms of clairvoyant 'seeing' should be eventually
possessed in such a way as to be available at any given moment
and not only during the exercises of the morning and the
evening.

Occultism is to a great extent a science which teaches us how to
do these and similar exercises. It gives us their right order; it tells
us of the gradual identification with the phenomena outside and
inside ourselves; it teaches us in what order we have to concentrate
on the different organs and functions experienced during our
'visions'. A great deal of Egyptian hieroglyphic inscriptions, as
well as the Book of the Dead, consists of such laws.

Steiner also gave very detailed instructions for the development
of clairvoyance through exercises done in normal waking state.
These instructions are to be found in his book Knowledge of the
Higher Worlds and its Attainment, and are intended to lead to the
attainment of perceptions purely spiritual. We gain second sight
into the mineral, plant and animal kingdoms, and eventually into
ourselves and others. There is nothing of mysticism or magic in
those exercises, performed as consciously as a scientific experiment.
During the exercises we meditate on the specific qualities of the
mineral, vegetable and animal. Steiner believed that such medita-
tions permit the development of inner organs with which we can
'see' and 'hear' the spiritual reality of a thing as clearly as we see
and hear its physical reality with our physical eyes and ears. He
called them 'the organs of clairvoyance'.

VII

If we accept the foregoing statements, we must also accept the
fact that a general medical practitioner who possesses conscious
occult knowledge knows more than a specialist who possesses none.
The following instance will show that Steiner, though not a physician,
had a deep medical knowledge in certain cases. The child of one of
his friends had suffered since birth from a strange disease: the
difference between the lower temperature of the upper part of her
body and the higher temperature of the lower part far exceeding
the normal difference. Not one of the German, Swiss and Austrian
doctors who had been consulted was able to diagnose the disease

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or to prescribe a remedy, and eventually Steiner himself was asked
to see the child.

'The family of one of the parents', he said, 'has consisted for
many generations of tall fathers and short mothers. This has resulted
in a "symmetrophobia of the formative powers of bodily heat".
This state will continue till the child is seven, and one can only
counterbalance the natural symmetrophobia by giving the child
barium.' Steiner explained that at the age of seven a child loses the
'model body' given by its parents and begins to build its own body;
it casts off certain inherited physical features; it loses the first
'given' set of teeth and forms the first set of its 'own' teeth.

As the mother of the child was of noble origin her genealogy was
not unknown, and it was ascertained that there had indeed been a
long line of tall fathers and short mothers in her family. The
illness disappeared entirely after the child had reached its seventh
year.

Very often clairvoyance of one particular kind is developed, as
we have seen in the case of Baron V.'s second sight. Though they
were diametrically opposed, both Egyptian and Northern clair-
voyance were onesided. It was only very much later that an all-
round clairvoyance, comprising the perceptions won both in the
macrocosm and in the microcosm, could be achieved. Steiner based
himself to a certain extent on the first known system which included
both kinds. This was expounded in the book The Chemical Marriage,
by Valentin Andreae, published in 1604. The mysterious hero of this
book is one 'Christian Rosenkreuz', an exponent of the mysticism
of the Fraternity known as Rosicrucians.

Other sides of clairvoyance are developed with the help of those
who bring one particular form to perfection. Steiner spoke several
times to his most intimate friends about the occult connections
between a disciple and the masters, and Dr. Rittelmeyer records
one of them: 'What impressed me most,' he says, 'was the way
Steiner spoke of the great teachers who had crossed his path. Men
of extraordinary spirituality, entirely unknown in public life, were
there at the right moment, helping him in decisive years to under-
stand and develop critical faculties. After long preparation the neces-
sary helpers are sent at the right moment. . . . The outer world has
not the slightest inkling of it. ... It was wonderful to hear in such
detail of the actual existence of such spiritual leaders who ruled
concealed behind the veil of human history. . . . Those who recall

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the intervention of one called "The Unknown" by Jakob Boehme1
can gain some idea of the things of which Steiner spoke. . . .' When
Dr. Rittelmeyer asked him whether the masters that Steiner had
come in contact with were still living, he only replied: 'There is no
need'.

Steiner was always very careful that his clairvoyance should not
interfere with his knowledge of the world gained by ordinary means.
When Rittelmeyer asked him in 1916 whether one could know how
the war was going to end, Steiner answered: 'Certainly it would
be possible, but then one would have to retire from all participation
in events. It would not do to investigate these things by occult
means and then to allow the knowledge so gained to colour one's
own actions'. Steiner treated all occult matters with the greatest
reverence, and he hated to speak about them to any but the few
people whom he knew he could trust.

Steiner naturally believed in ancient knowledge which had been
hidden either in esoteric schools or in ancient mysteries. In several
of his books and several of his lectures he referred to such a knowl-
edge, and for a number of years there existed an esoteric group
within the Anthroposophical Society. Steiner lectured to the mem-
bers of the group about subjects which were too advanced for the
uninitiated. Outsiders used to invent stories about mystical rites and
ceremonies within the esoteric group, but this was pure invention.
Steiner often insisted that knowledge of that kind should not be
imparted to the public at large, since it might be treated without the
necessary respect.

On the other hand he believed that the moment had come when
such a knowledge should no longer be confined to a few initiates,
and that humanity was able to approach hidden knowledge through
conscious thought. There were, however, powerful bodies in strong
opposition to his attitude. There have always been two main currents
in occult schools: the one anxiously guarding all esoteric knowledge
for a few privileged people; the other considering that that knowl-
edge should become the property of a wider circle. Steiner belonged
to the second group. To the former belong most of the Churches.

Steiner was never vague as to his own occult duties and powers.
He saw his mission very clearly as one based on conscious occult
perceptions. 'In my life mission', he said once, 'I must confine myself
to the occult — otherwise I shall not succeed'.

1 Jakob Boehme (1575-1624), great mystic and philosopher.
63

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VIII

It was quite natural for the Churches to condemn a teaching that
tried through conscious understanding to gain possession of their
specialized and privileged knowledge. The Churches will part with
that knowledge only if it is shrouded in their own symbolism and
their own dogmas. That knowledge must be based on authority
and not on the deliberation of the individual. The Churches consider
such knowledge too dangerous to be divulged in the manner in
which Steiner seemed to divulge it; but it would be wrong to imagine
Steiner, by birth a Roman Catholic, as anti-christian. He was deeply
religious, and his occult experiences had widened his religious under-
standing.

Experienced theologians were struck by the profoundity of
Steiner's conception of Christ, and Rittelmeyer gives us an account
of a lecture on Christ given by Steiner to a group of theologians.
'I realized then', Rittelmeyer narrates, 'how a man in the very
presence of Christ speaks of Christ. There was something more than
devotional reverence in his words. In freedom and reverence a man
was looking up to Christ whose presence was quite near. . . . The
many hundreds of sermons I had heard about Christ came up in the
background of my mind. They faded into shadows . . .' Rittelmeyer
himself was considered one of the greatest German preachers of the
day. In later years the Gospels were to become one of the most
important foundations of Steiner's teaching, and this even resulted
in the establishment of a new Church.

In Steiner's opinion the life of Christ was the main event in the
history of the world, and everything before Christ nothing but a
spiritual preparation for the crowning event in His life. He saw the
highest form of such a spiritual preparation in pre-Christian mys-
teries such as those of Ephesus and Eleusis, which imparted their
esoteric teaching to those who had been admitted to them by virtue
of their occult gifts. The pupil who had undergone the necessary
training was in spirit completely transformed by the mysteries.
From then onwards he was an initiate.

It would lead us too far even to summarize the whole of Steiner's
Christology, but some of its maint points may perhaps be usefully
given here.

The death on the cross distinguishes, for Steiner, the Christian
from all other religions. Christ not only taught but also died for

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what He taught. Thus Christianity begins with a deed, while other
religions begin with a doctrine. In Steiner's opinion Christ's death
became a source of the most vital changes in human history and in
every individual, no matter of what race or religion. It changed not
only man but even the very earth on which man lives.

Steiner is not alone in considering that a great part of the Gospels
is full of esoteric knowledge and that they can be understood fully
only if this truth is acknowledged. The crucial point of Golgotha
lay for Steiner in the fact that Christ made His sacrifice with full
consciousness of what He did. Thus the words of St. John become
for him of the greatest significance: 'Therefore doth my Father love
me, because I lay down my life, that I might take it again. No man
taketh it from me, but I lay it down of myself.' According to Steiner,
this self-imposed sacrifice gives every one of us the power to enter
into the mystery of the life and the death of Christ. Golgotha con-
tains for Steiner the concentrated wisdom of the whole universe.
By penetrating into it man can attain to the understanding of both
the macrocosm around him, and its reproduction within himself,
the microcosm.

Both ordinary and occult knowledge were for Steiner necessities,
designed to enrich each other, but also to be used only in their
proper places. When Dr. Rittelmeyer asked him one day: 'Why was
it that in spite of all you must have known, even in your early years,
you were so completely silent about occult matters until your
fortieth year?', Steiner replied: 'I had to make a certain position
for myself in the world first. People may say nowadays that my
writings are mad, but my earlier work is also there, and they cannot
wholly ignore it. And moreover, I had to bring things to a certain
clarity in myself, to a point where I could give them form, before it
was possible to talk about them. That was not so easy. And then —
I admit it frankly — it needed courage to speak openly about such
things. I had first to acquire that courage.'

In later years, just before his death, Steiner explained why he
waited so long before he felt entitled to make occult pronounce-
ments. Before he was thirty-six he had been thinking about physical
things in the ordinary scientific? way; later on he began to 'see'
things around him in their whole physical reality; and they now
evoked in him the same spiritual pictures that revealed themselves
E 65

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in his occult visions. This process could be compared to the in-
spirations of a man like Wordsworth, of which Dean Inge said:
'Wordsworth's inspiration was . . . something which came direct
to him; a revelation of the unseen through natural objects, whereby
he was granted the power to see into the life of things.' The 'life
of things' was the very goal of Steiner's labours.

Not even thoughts and feelings were to be experienced through
the faculties of physical perception only, such as, for example, the
intellect. Steiner was aiming at the development of 'spiritual eyes'
with a view to observing the world as what Dean Inge calls ' some-
thing higher and deeper than itself. Anthroposophy is primarily a
descriptive science, and its relation with the spiritual world is the
same as the relation of natural sciences with the physical world.

Dr. Rittelmeyer was anxious to test the scientific knowledge which
Steiner had acquired by means of his occult experiences. Not being
himself a scientist he employed others for the making of this test.
These specialists were to put questions on their particular branch of
science. Dozens of scientists were dispatched to 'examine' Steiner
but had to admit that his knowledge of their particular science was
greater than their own.

It was therefore not surprising that Steiner's headquarters became
an all-round scientific institute. Steiner began to build it during the
war, but as the German authorities would not allow him to build in
Munich, he accepted a site on a hill in Dornach, near Basle, offered
him by admirers. It was called in Goethe's honour the ' Goetheanum'.
The work of constructing it was a solitary instance of truly inter-
national collaboration at a time when most European nations were
at war. Steiner's pupils from seventeen different countries assembled
at Dornach to help in the building of the Goetheanum, and many of
them had to overcome great difficulties before they could reach
Dornach.

The Goetheanum was designed by Steiner himself. It was built
of wood like a musical instrument, and, since it was intended for
lectures, music and recitations, its acoustic properties were carefully
considered. Steiner used for its construction the same seven different
kinds of wood which are used for the construction of a violin, and
the ceiling of the main hall was as buoyant as the walls of a violin.
The building was conceived mainly as a piece of inner architecture,
and contained, besides the lecture hall and theatre, studios and the
usual offices. Scientists, taught by Steiner after they had gone through

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their professional studies in the ordinary universities, lectured every
day. The aim of the teaching was to give anthroposophical aspects
of such subjects as biology, medicine, astronomy, stagecraft, agricul-
ture, religion and eurhythmy (see p. 242). The theatrical and
choreographic activities were directed mainly by Frau Steiner, who
had been her husband's close collaborator for many years. Steiner
himself was a lover of the theatre, and wrote a number of plays for
performances at the Goetheanum, while Frau Steiner directed the
classes of eurhythmy — rhythmical movements, designed to become
'visible speech'.

Once you began to study anthroposophy you realized the great
difference between it and other spiritual systems. Its lack of emo-
tionalism and its scientific character enabled it to be studied from
books and lectures. While Keyserling's philosophy, though clearly
of an ethical kind, was, at its best, without a clear system, Steiner
created a scientific system that like any other could be studied and
applied. Stefan George, most decidedly a poet, appealed foremost to
the emotional faculties that are stored up in our subconscious;
and these cannot easily be applied through a conscious and syste-
matic study. Steiner tried to give to anthroposophy the exactness of
mathematics.

It was with some excitement that I went to hear Steiner himself
for the first time. The hall was packed and filled with an atmosphere
of expectation. I have seen more devoted, more sentimental or
hysterical audiences but I cannot recollect having ever seen a more
expectant one.

Steiner began his lecture without preliminaries or introductions:
he was 'in medias res' a minute after the lecture had begun. It took
me much longer to overcome my unexpected inner reaction to his
appearance. To be quite candid, I was slightly terrified. There was
something frightening in the deepset eyes, in the ascetic face, bleak
as a landscape in the moon, in the strands of jet-black hair falling
over the pale forehead. I do not remember ever having seen a man
in whose presence I had such an eerie feeling.

When I got used to the singularity of Steiner's appearance I could
discern how human and simple he was. The impassioned way in
which he spoke, the expressiveness of the Austrian intonation in
his voice, the theatrical effect of his black bow tie, contrasted oddly

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

with the simplicity of his whole manner. My first impressions were
lost entirely after a few more lectures. I understood only later why
his face had impressed me in such an uncommon way: it was as
though the face were not big enough to hold the whole intensity of
its spiritual expression. When I showed a photograph of Steiner
to a friend, she exclaimed: 'That man must have suffered terribly.'
Indeed, his face bore the marks of untold experiences and suffer-
ings.

At the time when I was attending the lectures Steiner's main
activities were still centred upon a subject that had become of para-
mount importance in his life, the 'Threefold Commonwealth of the
Social Structure'. It was the result of his attempts to find a solution
to political and economic difficulties brought to a head by the war.
The war had been an event of the greatest personal concern to him.

Though he hoped for an Austro-German victory, he had a very
shrewd notion of the true situation. He never subscribed to the
common belief in the supremacy of Germany as expressed in terms
of armies, guns and battleships. Steiner had declared his mistrust
of the generals long before others began to understand that it was
futile to expect very much from them. At a time when the whole
German nation was looking upon men like Ludendorff as their
saviours, and when the slightest criticism was considered almost
high treason, the following conversation took place between Steiner
and Dr. Rittelmeyer. It was in the middle of the war and the whole
of Germany was rejoicing over the recent appointment of Hinden-
burg and Ludendorff. Rittelmeyer was as enthusiastic as the rest of
Germany, and he said: 'It is really a piece of good luck that we now
have Hindenburg and Ludendorff', to which Steiner answered:
'Well, Hindenburg is an old man . . . the main work is being done
by the Chief of the General Staff.' And when Rittelmeyer, expressing
only the current opinion of the German nation, said: 'So the bright
spot for Germany is now Ludendorff?', Steiner replied with the
greatest earnestness: 'It is not in the interest of Germany to have
such generals.'

Steiner believed in a German mission in the world. But he did not
share the view of most Germans tliat Germany's mission could be
fulfilled by her armies, and that her final goal was the Kaiser's
'place in the sun'. His esteem for Germany was not confined to the

OCCULT TRUTH

Hohenzollern Reich. It embraced all that he believed best in the
Germanic spirit, no matter whether it came from achievements with
which Steiner himself was not in sympathy, such as Kant's philo-
sophy, conceived on the shores of the Baltic; or from things he
loved, such as the musical art of Vienna and Salzburg; or even from
the work of the poets and thinkers in the Czech capital of Prague.
Germany was for him not so much a political and geographical as
an ideological reality. Hence the German mission could only be
of a spiritual kind. Steiner had no doubt that the German spirit
was more valuable when expressing itself through music, philosophy
and science than through the deeds of William II, Ludendorff and
Tirpitz.

Steiner was anxious that some sound expression of the necessities
of Central Europe should be brought forward as a convincing answer
to the suggestions of President Wilson. In the middle of the war he
said: 'A word of the spirit must now go forth from Middle Europe.
If this does not happen we shall succumb to the Wilson programme.
Middle Europe cannot exist under Wilson's Fourteen Points. But
they must be answered from within a spiritual understanding of
Middle Europe.' Later on he expressed a similar opinion when
saying: 'Wilson will bring great misfortune to Middle Europe and
achieve nothing he wishes to achieve. . . .' Steiner hoped that a
'spiritual' programme for the solution of Middle-European prob-
lems would impress the Allied statesmen, who would then 'realize
the existence in Germany of a spiritual power not lightly to be
brushed aside'.

Accordingly he prepared a programme that by its greater vision
was to be stronger than Wilson's Fourteen Points based merely on
political premises. His ideas were expressed in a manifesto, and in a
programme of the 'Threefold Commonwealth'. The Manifesto
appeared in 1919. Its main points, reproduced by most continental
newspapers, were based on Steiner's ideas of the 'Threefold Com-
monwealth'.

Man was for Steiner a 'threefold' being, composed of will-power,
emotions and mind. The life of a nation was for him likewise a
Threefold Commonwealth, created by economical, political, and
intellectual and artistic activities.

Economics include the production, distribution and consumption
of commodities and the welfare of the people. Politics are the expres-
sion of the native psychology of a people, and in Steiner's programme

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

included military as well as political matters. The intellectual life
included the sciences, education, letters and social services. Eco-
nomics must be capable of adapting themselves from day to day to
the existing conditions; they must be run by experts and must not
be hindered by political necessities. Political life and administration
are by the very nature of a given national psychology conservative,
and Steiner therefore wanted to allow them to preserve their nature.
This could only be achieved if they were run by men with the greatest
experience of life, by the 'elders' of the nation. While economics
are opportunistic and politics conservative, the intellectual current
tends towards individualism. It should be directed by the greatest
men, the most outstanding personalities.

These three primary characteristics of the life of a nation should
be considered by the State as of fundamental importance. Hence
the three great currents of national life must be kept independent
of one another. Each one should be represented by its own legislative
assembly, and thus the various activities of the nation would be
directed by experts only. The leaders of the three assemblies would
meet in a sort of Senate where common problems would be con-
sidered and decided upon.

At the time I was attending Steiner's lectures the first session of
the new Republican Parliament was being held at Weimar. Even
in the first months of its existence all the drawbacks of immature
democratic methods as applied by a people without political educa-
tion or tradition could be perceived. Indeed, the moment was not
very distant when members of thirty or more distinct political parties
were squabbling in the Reichstag.

Steiner's ideas seemed extremely radical, and contradicted most
of the existing political systems. And yet German public life could
be saved from dissolution only if the three main currents of life were
divorced from party politics and from the amateurishness of the
new democratic politics. Steiner hoped that such a rationalization
of German life would destroy all previously prevailing causes of an
unreasonable nationalism. He also hoped that by a deeper under-
standing of the real necessities, even the national ambitions of the
various peoples within the Habsburg Monarchy could be out-
weighed. A more logically founded state of affairs would make
their aims as unnecessary as Wilson's Fourteen Points.

Steiner's political ideas did not seem to take sufficiently into
consideration the individuality and the stifled ambitions of the

OCCULT TRUTH

nations concerned with them. Moreover they were published at
inopportune moments during the war and in the years immediately
after it and before the peoples concerned had had a chance of study-
ing and digesting them.

In economic life Steiner advocated the same fundamental ration-
alization that he demanded for the political life of a country. This
rationalization was introduced later, though in distorted or purely
industrial forms, by various governments and by business under-
takings all over the world.

I was more impressed by Steiner's personality than by his
political ideas. But though I was conscious of the advantage
of association with him, I was honest enough, or it may be that I
was merely inexperienced enough, to assume that at this stage I
could gather all I needed from Steiner's written works, and that
any effort to be nearer him would only be an unfair trespass upon
his time.

XII

The attacks on Rudolf Steiner did not cease till his death. On
New Year's Eve, 1922, the new Goetheanum was burnt down.
There was no doubt that this was an act of incendiarism inspired,
or even committed, by Steiner's enemies. It was only one of the
many blatant results of the poisonous propaganda directed against
him and of the methods employed by the Germans in ideological
warfare. As every detail of the Goetheanum had been conceived by
Steiner himself, as most of it had been built by his pupils as an
original 'work by hand', and as the whole structure consisted merely
of carvings in wood, the loss was quite irreparable.

Steiner and his pupils fought the flames all through the night;
but when the morning of the New Year broke on the hills of the
Jura, little was left of his magnificent 'instrument'. The blow must
have been very heavy. One of his closest pupils found him weeping
in one of the rooms that had escaped destruction. Nobody had ever
seen tears in Steiner's eyes before.

'Herr Doktor,' he said, 4I have never seen you weep before. You
have withstood much heavier blows.'

* I am not crying because the work of ten years', Steiner answered,
'the result of the greatest sacrifices, has been destroyed. I am weeping
because the Western world will not see a monument which more than
anything else would have converted it to my way of thinking.'

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

Steiner believed that the Western world, which he regarded as
less intellectual than the Central European or the Eastern, accepts
a new teaching only if it can see it in action. The West must see
things to believe in them. The Goetheanum was for the West
the most visible and most striking crystallization of Steiner's
teaching. * Central Europe', he went on, 'did not require the visible
form of the Goetheanum. It can perceive new things through
thought alone. The Goetheanum might have convinced the Western
world.'

But he did not allow sentiment to affect his own activities or those
of the people who had come to learn from him. Each year during
Christmas the pupils produced a mystery play written for the occasion
by Steiner, who insisted that the play should be acted even though
the walls were still smouldering and most of the properties were
burnt.

A saddened audience assembled to listen to the message of Christ-
mas. The first character to enter what once had been the stage was
the Angel of the Annunciation. As he advanced and found himself
face to face with Steiner and his friends and pupils, exhausted and
pale, sitting among the debris of the former Goetheanum, he broke
down. This was the signal for a general reaction. The courage kept
up all through the night was gone at last, and many in the audience
burst into tears. But Steiner would not allow momentary weakness
to interfere with what he considered of deeper importance, and he
therefore persuaded the actors to go on with the play and the
audience to listen until the end, in forgetfulness of the ruins round
about them.

The next day Steiner went on with the work as usual, and drew up
plans for a new Goetheanum. As he disliked theoretical work of any
kind, he modelled the plans for the new building.

The new Goetheanum was to be much bigger than the first, and
it was to include laboratories, special lecture-rooms, studios and
workshops. But its animating purpose was to be quite different.
Steiner explained to one of his nearest friends: 'The first Goetheanum
was a work of love, made with money of love and sacrifice. It had
to be a living structure, That's why I built it as a musical instrument
in which the human voice can live. The new Goetheanum will be
built from the money that the Insurance Companies will pay. They
will hate to pay us. It will no longer be money given with love, and
I must use it accordingly. The new Goetheanum will be built not

OCCULT TRUTH

of wood but of dead material — of concrete'. It seemed significant
that Steiner only finished the model of the exterior before he died.

Though endless worry, strain and labour told on Steiner's health,
he continued his work with undiminished fervour. His work grew
instead of decreasing. It was as if Steiner were anxious to leave
behind all the spiritual knowledge that he had discovered. He con-
sidered his knowledge indispensable for the improvement of a world
sinking fast into the mire of international disunity, national
autarchy and various forms of modern materialism.

Several of Steiner's pupils wondered why he did not employ some
of his supernatural powers in curing himself. Had he not cured many
other people by finding the precise diagnosis and by prescribing the
only helpful method of healing? But Steiner was not to become
unfaithful to lifelong principles now that the physical end was near.
He had considered that his occult powers could only be used for
spreading knowledge and helping others and that he had no right
to use them for his own good.

In fact Steiner was also hoping that the people round him would
spare him more. Though he believed that his ordinary medical know-
ledge would be sufficient to fight the illness, this could only be done
if he were spared the exhaustion of too much work. He considered
that he could go on giving lectures without aggravating his condition,
but, unfortunately, his faith in people — perhaps the only fundamental
mistake of Steiner's whole life — proved once again wrong. He had
always valued people too highly, and once again he was to be
defeated by them.

Neither the visitors who used to come to the Goetheanum from
all over the world nor the many pupils realized the gravity of Steiner's
condition. Once or twice he asked them to be more considerate.
Notices were even posted requesting people to apply for personal
interviews only in cases of the greatest urgency. It helped but little.
There was a constant stream of people who came to ask Steiner
purely personal questions. And yet the days when he was quite
unable to take any food were becoming more and more frequent.
The interviews came on top of his lectures and his private work, and
finally his physical resistance broke down altogether.

Though Steiner had now almost lost the power of taking nourish-
ment, he was determined to carry on with one last piece of work on
which he had been engaged for a number of years. It was the carving
of an immense statue, representing Christ reforming the powers of

THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

the world after His victory over the Spirit of Darkness. It consisted of
several figures, and Steiner, though untrained as a sculptor, had
carved most of the large group unaided. Now, reduced to a skeleton,
he was spending hour after hour on the scaffolding erected round
the monument. When he was too weak to stand on the scaffolding
he had to abandon the statue, and his bed was brought into the shed
where he worked and placed under it. Though no longer able to sit
up, he went on working. All he could do was to model the plans for
the new Goetheanum. The model was resting on his blanket till
almost the very last moment. He died at the feet of his Christ on
30 March 1925, and the burial service was read by Dr. Rittelmeyer
in the hall in which Steiner had given his most important lectures.

In England the Contemporary Review published an article by Sir
Kenneth Mackenzie in which the writer said: "The work Dr. Steiner
has done is so immense that it is really very hard to grasp its extent;
nobody could keep up with him. He was at least a hundred years
ahead of his time . . . hence the isolation in which he lived. . . . That
he was widely loved, as well as deeply respected, is shown by the
fact that thousands came from all over the Continent and even from
England, pouring into Dornach for the funeral service, and com-
pletely overcrowding the town and neighbourhood. . . ."

XIII

Steiner is the * scientist' of truth among the modern seers, who try
to find it through religion, philosophy, mystical revelation or artistic
inspiration. He is not satisfied with one aspect of truth, but ap-
proaches it through a hundred different channels.

After Steiner other exploits may seem something of an anticlimax.
Should not Steiner have been * saved up' for the end of this book,
one might ask. But Steiner's place in this account must necessarily
correspond to his place in the author's life. Besides, Steiner's road
towards God was of a distinctly scientific and occult character.
'And', to quote Dean Inge, 'since the diverse faculties, which in
their several ways bear witness to God, are developed in very differ-
ent proportions by different individuals, we should expect to find that
there are many paths up God's holy hill, though all meet at the
top.'

PART TWO
THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

'In my Father's house are many mansions.'

ST. JOHN xiv. 2.

INTRODUCTION

THE ENGLISH SCENE

4 ... those years immediately after the war — the era in England of
physical exhaustion and psycho-analysis. We only allowed two
virtues then, courage and "intellectual honesty", which meant that
it doesn't matter what you do as long as you know you are doing it.
. . . War profiteers were subscribing to war memorials and exhibiting
righteous indignation at the miners having pianos in their cottages.
The Church was pointing out that it had said all along God was on
our side; . . . and the proletariat was in a sort of convalescent daze.'
This is how a member of that generation which was too young to
fight in the war, yet old enough to be aware of its consequences,
described conditions in England after 1919.1

A foreigner coming to England would have hardly seen the situa-
tion in the same light. He would have seen only the soundness, the
order and the calm of life in England, as contrasted with the theatrical
and restless atmosphere of the Continent. What he would have
noticed as most striking would have been the great gulf between most
people's intellectual and their emotional responses: the intellectual
reactions were hesitant and not always convincing, the emotional
definite and strong. He would have expected most of the newer
spiritual movements in England to have been founded upon an
emotional basis.

Though generalizations are dangerous, it is true to say that among
one group of British people alone — the 'dissatisfied' — were spiritual
movements of an unconventional nature to be found. Those people
who could find no fault with the leading tendencies of the time,

1 New Country t "Letter to a Young Revolutionary", by C. Day Lewis (Hogarth
Press).

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

and who were 'unshaken in the faith they held', constituted the
majority.

'It is interesting to see', says Mr. C. Day Lewis, 'how our genera-
tion, sick to death of Protestant democratic liberalism and the in-
tolerable burden of the individual conscience, are turning to the old
and the new champions of order and authority, the Roman Catholic
Church or Communism.'

What distinguished the young Communist enthusiasts in England
from their continental brethren was that while for the latter
Communism was mainly a political creed, for many of the English
Communists it was an ethical problem, and indeed a definite faith.
Communism played the same part in their lives that the movements
of Stefan George and Rudolf Steiner played in the lives of young
Germans. We used to find those Communist enthusiasts often in some
of the English universities, but it is necessary to distinguish the sin-
cere adherents of Communism from those who have been attracted
to it in the way that they might previously have been attracted to the
study of Negro art, the Russian ballet or psycho-analysis. Some of
its more earnest adherents were undergraduates at Oxford and
Cambridge with an impressive academic record. The effects of 'con-
version' were so violent in some that they at once began to neglect
their studies at the University — for which, together with the rest of
their former activities, they felt the utmost contempt — and devoted
themselves to an orgy of 'party work'. Others, less resolute, still re-
tained some individualistic traits and, while organizing processions
and drawing up questionnaires, continued to sip sherry in each other's
rooms, though with a conscience uneasy at such a betrayal of party
principles.

Those young men who identified themselves completely with
Communism and the more radical forms of Socialism were expon-
ents of the constructive side of the dissatisfied English minority. The
preceding generation had had no faith to look for, and could only
satisfy their need by a restless search for fresh experience. The more
frivolous, who had spent their time in an endless round of amuse-
ments, have been immortalized in the works of such writers as Noel
Coward and Evelyn Waugh. The more serious, though cynical and
disillusioned, were aware of their plight, which was identical with
that revealed in the earlier poetry of T. S. Eliot. In Communism the

THE ENGLISH SCENE

succeeding generation had found a faith, and in finding it they had
broken through the prevailing indifference.

The more immediate cause of the movement was moral indigna-
tion at the iniquities that were being perpetrated under the Capitalist
system, and the belief that such a system had exhibited its effeteness
in the financial world crisis. Under Capitalism, they argued, war was
inevitable. They substantiated their arguments with references to the
ruthless methods of certain big business ramps, and the vulgar be-
haviour of the 'idle rich', who, in spite of their comparatively small
numbers, loomed so large on the horizon of those young intellectuals
as to epitomize for them the ultimate product of the Capitalist
system. They flaunted the works of Karl Marx in the faces of the
'bourgeois' disbelievers, though one may doubt whether they had
penetrated very far into Das Kapital.

Had this generation of politically-minded and dissatisfied youths
gone through all the experiences of German youth — weighed down
with the despair of a defeated people, unemployed, without money,
without prospects of improvement, and yet eaten up by a thirst for
power — then it might have evolved some spiritual creed more
genuinely British and deeper than alien Communism.

Ill

There were many attempts of a spiritual nature in England after
the war, but such self-expression as the youth of Germany found in
Nazism was unknown.

Though not many British people may find complete spiritual
satisfaction in their established Churches these have become so much
a part of British tradition and synonymous with order and security
that a denial of them would amount almost to a denial of the whole
structure of British life. Nevertheless some of the spiritual move-
ments outside the Churches evoke the widest interest.

Britons hate organization and uniformity; to go through all the
external formalities of joining a new movement invariably alienates
them. But such superficial indications are deceptive. That a Briton
does not 'discuss his religion' does not necessarily mean that he
takes no interest in spiritual subjects. When the B.B.C. arranged
a series of talks on 'Inquiry into the Unknown', they received
thousands of letters — more, in fact, than they had ever before
received.

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

With one exception, the nature of all the movements I had been
in touch with in England was entirely in keeping with what appeared
to me characteristic of the British attitude towards spiritual investiga-
tions. Neither the sentimental and slightly snobbish amateurishness
of the British Israelites nor the devotional simplicity of the Four-
square Gospellers; neither Theosophy in its later guise as created by
Krishnaniurti, nor the happy-go-lucky religiosity of Dr. Buchman
was surprising.

British excursions into the world of the spirit had their roots either
in emotionalism or in the traditional reverence for 'scientific truth'.
The results of the former are Theosophy, Revivalism and Buchman-
ism — of the latter, the Society for Psychical Research. While in
Germany the most outstanding names in post-war attempts to find
new truths — Steiner, George, Keyserling — had a distinctly intellectual
flavour, in England the names of Dr. Buchman, Annie Besant,
Krishnamurti testified to the emotional nature of the movements.
The importance of the Society for Psychical Research and the high
regard in which it is held, point to the possible direction of future
spiritual discoveries in England. The spiritual conception of life as
opposed to an intellectual one will probably be generally accepted
by British people through some particularly subtle form of scientific
method or even instrument.

It is perhaps surprising to find unconventional manifestations of
a mystical longing such as we find them in the British Israel move-
ment in the 'satisfied' upper classes. This began in 1879, and has
spread since then over most of the English-speaking countries. It
circulates its own magazines and papers; it counts among its mem-
bers eminent people and, though it has never had spiritual aims of
any consequence, its beliefs show that even many of the most
'satisfied' English people suffer from a spiritual thirst that legitimate
religion seems unable to quench. It may suffice to mention briefly the
few main beliefs of the movement. The Royal House of Great Britain
is sprung from David; the perpetuation of the dynasty of David
through the female line is the direct fulfilment of prophecy; English-
speaking people are descended fr9m the House of Israel, and are in
possession of special blessings promised in the Bible, and have a
special mission to fulfil in the world. The British Israelite adherents
believe in the prophecies supposed to be contained in the Egyptian

THE ENGLISH SCENE

pyramids, and they have demonstrated that the interval between the
birth of King David and that of David, the present Prince of Wales,
is 'exactly a hundred generations, each of thirty years'.1 This yearn-
ing for a religious and historical truth that would transcend the
present religious and historical limits, went so far as to establish to
their own satisfaction a direct link between the British Royal House
and Jesus Christ Himself. We read that 'Anna, the cousin of the
Virgin Mary, assigned as the ancestress of the Tudor princes, was
the daughter of Joseph of Arimathea, reputed to be the founder of
a British Dynasty'.

Of the distinctively post-war movements, those of Krishnamurti,
Dr. Buchman and Principal Jeffreys are the largest. Buchmanism,
which requires the minimum of intellectual effort, has become the
creed of a section of the wealthier middle classes. Krishnamurti has
appealed to those with independent minds who have no longer been
able to find any satisfaction in the dogmatized forms of post-war
Theosophy. His followers belong to many nations and to all classes.
The revivalist George Jeffreys, though scoffed at by the intellectuals
and the Churches, has brought spiritual happiness to thousands.
The mysterious Gurdjieff and the Parsee Shri Meher Baba have both
had many followers in England. Among all these movements the
success of a system as intellectual as Ouspensky's was alone sur-
prising.

Though hardly any of these movements are distinctively English
they are treated together as one 'English Adventure', for they have
all originated or acquired their importance in this country.

1 All this of course was written several years before the accession to the throne
and the abdication of Edward VIII.

CHAPTER I
THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

Krishnamurti

One Sunday morning I sat in a small panelled room in one of
those fine Queen Anne houses that are still to be found in
certain parts of Westminster. The street outside the window was
deserted. It was raining hard, and the lowering sky robbed the
room of the few bright colours that some roses in a vase and an
old chair covered with tapestry had introduced into it. The house
belonged to the Dowager Lady De La Warr, and I was waiting
to meet Mr. Jiddu Krishnamurti, who was staying there on a short
visit.

This was to be my first meeting with Krishnamurti. The young
Indian was supposed to be rather shy, and, in view of all the sensa-
tional reports about him in the newspapers, I did not find this in
the least surprising. I had determined to come to this meeting with
an open mind, but I must confess I found it hard to feel anything but
the profoundest scepticism. I recalled several of the strange tales that
I had read in the course of the last few days. One of them remained
in my memory with particular vividness, though it described an event
that had taken place almost twenty years earlier. It was an account
of a convention at Benares, and its author was at the time private
secretary to Krishnamurti, then aged fifteen. He had written: 'The
line of members began to pass up the central passage . . . with a bow
to the Head f Krishnamurti]. . . . The whole atmosphere . . . was
thrown into powerful vibration. ... All saw the young figure draw

itself up and take on an air of dignified majesty The approaching

member involuntarily dropped on his knees, bowing his head to the
ground. ... A great coronet of brilliant shimmering blue appeared
a foot or two above the young head and from this descended funnel-
wise bright streams of blue light. . . . The Lord Maitreya was there
embodying Himself in His Choseri. Within the coronet blazed the
crimson of the symbol of the Master Jesus, the rosy cross . . .' I am
afraid I did not read on much farther after the 'rosy cross'; but I

KRISHNAMURTI

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

was told that the writer of these impressive lines was not the only
one who claimed to have seen this colourful performance.

There seemed some justification for an attitude of scepticism,
and as I sat waiting I experienced a feeling of superciliousness
which we are all occasionally apt to indulge in when we know a
particularly weak spot in the life of the person we are going to
meet. In me this feeling had been strengthened by the fact that I
had read in a newspaper only the night before that Krishnamurti's
followers in Holland had finally proclaimed him the 'World Teacher'.
He himself had uttered these words: ' Krishnamurti has entered into
that life, which is represented by some as the Christ, by others as
Buddha, by others still as the Lord Maitreya. . . .' These words had
put the conscience of Krishnamurti's followers at ease and had in-
duced them to proclaim him once and for all 'The Vehicle of the
Lord'. For ordinary people this was, to say the least, alarming
news.

I was thinking of all these strange things while I was looking on the
empty street half hidden by the heavy drizzle. I had plenty of informa-
tion about Krishnamurti's life to counterbalance my scepticism. I
knew that some of the people who stood behind him were serious-
minded and intelligent.

I had come across the name Krishnamurti directly only a few weeks
previously at the house of Lady De La Warr at Wimbledon, where I
had met some of his most intimate friends — experienced elderly men
and women who were not at all the sort of people to be bluffed. The
centre of the group was Mrs. Annie Besant, then almost eighty years
old and a most attractive person, very bright and untheosophical,
full of political and intellectual interests, which she expressed in a
most lively and amusing manner. Next to her was Mr. George Lans-
bury, the veteran labour leader. He too was preoccupied with Indian
and other political problems. There was very little to suggest a religi-
ous fanaticism in his slow, deep-voiced pronouncements. Anything
more solid, more natural, could hardly be imagined. Even our hostess
mentioned the subject of theosophy only casually. Then there was a
member of Parliament who, I believe, was an Under Secretary of
State; he was evidently a great authority on India. There was nothing
exalted or mystical about the other people in the room. These were
Krishnamurti's closest friends in England. It was difficult to imagine
these people talking of the 'great coronet of brilliant blue' and 'the
rosy cross of the Lord Jesus'. Annie Besant herself was obviously a
F 81

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

very shrewd woman. Though at the time I knew little about her or
her work, I could see that there was not much in life that had escaped
her.

And then Krishnamurti entered the room. He walked towards me
with an inviting smile, and we shook hands. I was immediately struck
by his remarkably handsome face, and after a few minutes* con-
versation I was equally charmed by his attractive personality. These
two impressions were very strong, and I suppose they determined
in some ways my future attitude towards him. I heard later from
other people that their first impressions of Krishnamurti were the
same as mine.

My former superciliousness gave way to a feeling of pleasure. At
first I thought that this feeling was due to the aesthetic delight caused
by his appearance.

Indeed, he was much more handsome than his photographs made
him appear. He seemed no older than twenty-two or twenty-three,
and he had the slender grace of a shy young animal. His eyes were
large and deep and his features finely cut. His head was crowned with
thick silky black hair. But it cannot have been the aesthetic im-
pression or the musical quality of the voice alone that had put me at
ease so quickly. He was obliging, though reserved; but in spite of
this after half an hour's conversation he made me believe that I had
known him most of my life; and yet there was nothing particularly
easygoing about him, though there was a pronounced feeling of
balance and proportion in his manner. And there was an under-
current of human warmth which was responsible for the atmosphere
of spiritual intimacy between us.

These were my first impressions of Mr. Jiddu Krishnamurti of
Adyar, Madras, India; Castle Eerde, Ommen, Holland; Arya Vihara,
Ojai, California and the Amphitheatre, Sydney, Australia.

Ill

Jiddu Krishnamurti was born in 1897 at Madanapalle in Southern
India. He was the eighth child of Brahmin parents. His father
Narayaniah had a minor post in tlie civil service, and afterwards be-
came an official at the headquarters of the Theosophical Society at
Adyar, Madras. One day in 1900 when little Krishnaji was bathing

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

in the river with his younger brother Nityananda, the Rev. Charles
Leadbeater saw them. Mr. Leadbeater was Mrs. Besant's closest
collaborator and one of the leaders of the Theosophical Society. He
talked to the boys and invited them to his bungalow. And now some-
thing took place which was to affect not only the life of the two
Jiddu brothers but equally that of many thousands of people all over
the world. Mr. Leadbeater discovered that the older boy Krishna-
murti was none other than the 'Vehicle of the new World Teacher,
the Lord Maitreya' whose last incarnation on earth had apparently
been in the person of Jesus Christ.

Now, this was a most extraordinary discovery for anyone to make,
even for a theosophical leader of some fame. Charles Leadbeater,
however, not only believed in his vision but even convinced Mrs.
Besant of the truth of it; and then began a series of events, almost
unparalleled in modern history. Krishnamurti was to be prepared for
his mission, and both he and his brother Nitya were taken into
Charles Leadbeater's charge — Nitya merely as a playmate for his
more exalted brother.

As there had previously been some gossip about Mr. Leadbeater,
the father Narayaniah demanded the return of his two boys. The
former renommee of Mr. Leadbeater seemed to have outweighed in
the father's estimation the possibility of the future fame of his own
son. There followed long struggles outside and inside the lawcourts.
Mrs. Besant was appointed guardian of the boys, and excitement upon
excitement kept newspaper correspondents busy for a long time until
eventually Charles Leadbeater had to leave India, and the boys were
sent to England. They were to receive an education that would com-
plete the beginnings made in India, and that would prepare young
Krishnaji for his future activities in the Western world.

The cheap publicity caused by Krishnamurti's association with Mr.
Leadbeater entirely over-shadowed all that had been favourable to
the boy in that association. Krishnamurti himself admitted in later
years that thanks to Mr. Leadbeater he had enjoyed all the privileges
of an all-round education, combining the best of Eastern and Western
methods. Such an education is usually available for only a few
Indians. Thanks to Mr. Leadbeater, he had been rescued from a life
of poverty and from the unhealthy conditions in which he had been
reared and brought up and relnoved to surroundings that were
beneficial to both mind and body. Krishnamurti also admitted that
Mr. Leadbeater was always the most considerate guardian, and that

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

he was never anything but the teacher anxious for the spiritual and
bodily happiness of his pupil. In view of the slander that followed Mr.
Leadbeater for many years it is important to state these facts as they
really were.

Meanwhile in India a new society, 'The Order of the Star in the
East', had been formed. Its aim was to provide the necessary plat-
form for the message of Krishnamurti, 'to proclaim the coming of a
World-Teacher and to prepare the world for that event'. Most of its
members were theosophists. With Mrs. Besant they believed deeply
in the truth of Charles Leadbeater's visions and in the part that
Krishnamurti was to play in the future history of mankind. Never-
theless certain small sections of the Theosophical Society found it
impossible to subscribe to the new doctrine, and felt obliged to leave
the movement. The German branch of the Theosophical Society not
only disapproved of the Krishnamurti legend but broke away al-
together under the leadership of Rudolf Steiner.

There is another version of the origin of Krishnamurti's 'divine
mission'. Hardly anyone knows it, and I heard it for the first time
from Ouspensky; yet, since its source is impeccable, I shall quote it,
even though Krishnamurti himself does not seem to know it.

According to this version, Leadbeater's original 'vision' was pure
invention. Together with Mrs. Besant he is supposed to have believed
that a young human being brought up as a 'messiah' — educated in an
appropriate manner and supported by a world-wide wave of love and
the implicit faith of great masses of people — ought to develop certain
Christlike qualities; and it appears that Leadbeater and Annie Besant
believed to the very end that Krishnamurti was thus developing
naturally into the personality of the 'World Teacher'.

The difference between the generally known and the above version
is not quite as large as it appears to be at first — for in both cases
Leadbeater and Mrs. Besant did not claim that Krishnamurti was the
messiah but that about twenty years' preparation would be necessary
for him to develop into the 'perfect vehicle' for the messiah. In either
case they seem to have had no doubts as to the successful result of
their method.

From 1912 to 1922 Krishnamurti and his brother lived in England,
being educated partly at private schools and partly by tutors. They
used to spend their holidays with L^dy De La Warr, who became a
sort of guardian to them. Krishnamurti was intended for Cambridge,
but when it appeared that the university authorities were loath to

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

accept a youth of his unique fame, it was decided that he should go
on studying under private tutors.

He was intelligent and keen, and seemed to absorb Western learn-
ing with much greater zest and with even better results than does the
ordinary English boy. Though certain influences during his early
youth at Adyar may have been detrimental to him, there is no doubt
that the spiritual training that he had to undergo in those years and
the feeling of grave responsibility that had been instilled into him had
a good effect. In England Krishnamurti was as popular with everyone
who came into touch with him as he had been in India. His personal
charm, which had impressed me in the first minutes of our meeting,
must have had the same effect on other people. The influence of a
woman of Mrs. Besant's wisdom and experience was, no doubt, also
beneficial. There are many people who felt rather hostile towards
Mrs. Besant, and perhaps not without reason, yet few have doubted
the sincerity of her intentions and the power of her intellect. Such a
mentor was bound to leave strong impressions upon the mind of a
sensitive youth.

After the year 1921 Krishnamurti began to lead a more indepen-
dent life. He travelled extensively; he gave up more and more of his
time to writing poetry, and also he wrote articles for the many inter-
national publications of the 'Order of the Star'. Those were the days
when Krishnamurti began to make friends with people outside the
auspices of the Theosophical Society and the shadow of his own
renown. He laid the foundations of many valuable friendships with
men of letters, artists and musicians, who were all attracted by the
charm of his unusual personality.

Perhaps the closest friendship — and the most interesting to us — was
that with Bourdelle, the French sculptor. After the death of Robin,
Antoine Bourdelle was considered the leading French sculptor, and
his fame extended far beyond Europe. In the days when the friend-
ship between the old artist and the Indian youth had fully matured,
VIntransigeant published a report of an interview with Bourdelle.
Bourdelle had been greatly impressed by Krishnamurti at their first
meeting, and had subsequently modelled a large bust of him. He
always considered it one of his most important works, and I remem-
ber that, in a posthumous exhibition of Bourdelle's sculpture in
London, the bust of Krishnamurti had the place of honour. 'When
one hears Krishnamurti speak one is astounded', said Bourdelle to the
representative of Ulntransigeant; 'so much wisdom in so young a

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

man!' Evidently Krishnamurti was a personality even without the
labels that had been attached to him by his ardent followers. 'There
is no-one in existence', Bourdelle went on, 'who is more impersonal,
whose life is more dedicated to others. ... In the desert of life Krish-
namurti is an oasis.'

Krishnamurti's greatest following was in England, but it was
interesting to note the impression he made on the French, who are,
as a race, usually hostile to spiritual manifestations that cannot be
defined in terms of logic. Nowhere have there appeared so many
valuable books and articles about Krishnamurti as in France. French-
men of an artistic disposition were the first to whom his personality
appealed, quite apart from his fame or his supposed mission in the
world. The blend of a beautiful appearance and a sensitive personality
was bound to impress people with the artistic and intellectual fastidi-
ousness of the French. Krishnamurti's exotic personality was no
doubt an added attraction in the eyes of his French admirers.

Equally typical as his popularity in France was the suspicion with
which he was regarded in Germany. The very fact that Krishnam-
urti's message came in a foreign language limited the extent of its
influence. In the first place it could only appeal to those Germans
who understood English. These were mostly people of a higher
education, and they expected to find some clear philosophical struc-
ture in a spiritual message. It was the class that had been interested
in Steiner, in Keyserling, in Stefan George. For the intellectual
appetite of these people there was not enough solid fare in Krish-
namurti's gospel, and his aesthetic assets were here of little avail.

In 1925 the Theosophical Society considered that the moment had
come for Krishnamurti to acknowledge his destiny in more formal
fashion, and this official recognition accordingly took place during
the celebration of the jubilee of the Society. Theodore Besterman, a
biographer of Mrs. Besant, describes most effectively the central
scene of the proceedings: ' ... In the shadow of the great banyan tree
in the grounds of the Adyar headquarters, Mr. Krishnamurti was
addressing some three thousand assembled delegates. ... A few of
those present had been warned what to expect, and these communi-
cated their excitement to those around them. The whole audience
was in the sort of state in which the individual is merged in the mass

— a revivalistpsychology The words of the speaker became more

and more urgent. "We are all expecting Him", he said; "He will be
with us soon." A pause, and then, with a dramatic change from the

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

third person to the first, the voice went on, "I come to those who want
sympathy, who want happiness. ... I come not to destroy but to
build." . . . And afterwards Mrs. Besant said that "the voice not
heard on earth for two thousand years had once again been beard".'

It was now decided that Krishnamurti should have something
more than the merely spiritual sphere of influence which was pro-
vided by the 'Order of the Star', and various properties were
purchased for the establishment of enormous camps in different
continents. A suitable territory was bought in the Ojai Valley in
California, where people from all over America could gather for
yearly meetings at which Krishnamurti would deliver his message.
California was particularly dear to Krishnamurti's heart, since it was
here that his beloved younger brother Nityananda had died a few
years ealier. For the Australian followers there was erected the
Amphitheatre in Sydney; for the Indian friends a camp in the Rishi
Valley. A Dutch nobleman, Baron Philip Pallandt van Eerde,
an enthusiastic admirer of Krishnamurti, put at his disposal his
Castle Eerde at Ommen in Holland with its old gardens and exten-
sive grounds. Eerde was to become Krishnamurti's European head-
quarters, and here his European followers were to assemble at a
vast camp meeting which was to be held every summer.

In January 1927 Krishnamurti spoke at a meeting in California,
and concluded his speech by reading one of his recent poems,
which ended with these words:

'lam the Truth,
I am the Law,
I am the Refuge,
I am the Guide,
The Companion and the Beloved.*

The imaginative reporter of the Theosophist added to this a poetic
summing up of the situation: 'As the last words were uttered there
was a sprinkle of light rain that seemed like a benediction and, span-
ning the valley, a perfect rainbow arch shone out.' Meanwhile Mrs.
Besant was travelling from country to country, giving lectures to
packed halls and speaking in her masterly way of the new World
Teacher.

Many details of this extraordinary 'life story' flashed through my
mind when Krishnamurti entered that room. But after half an hour's
conversation with him I was willing to forget most of the reports I

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

had heard. The picturesque story of his life seemed to me no longer
of much importance. How right I was I could not foresee at the time.
We parted friends, and I accepted an invitation to come to stay
with Krishnamurti at Eerde. There I should meet his friends from all
over the world; and, besides listening to his public speeches, I should
also have an opportunity of further personal conversation.

I actually went twice to Eerde in the course of the summer. The
first time I could only spend two or three days there, so I decided to
visit Krishnamurti again in a month's time, when I should be able to
stay at least ten days, and witness the huge gathering of theosophists
and members of Krishnamurti's own movement. There would be
many visitors from the United States, from India and even from
Australia.

To a writer of fiction the atmosphere at Eerde would probably
offer the most attractive material I could imagine all sorts of books
inspired by it — psychological, devotional, religious, romantic,
hysterical, lyrical, satirical How tempting it would have been for a
novelist to describe the little castle, an elegant building of the early
eighteenth century rising up from a moat and connected with the
'mainland' by a delightful semicircular terrace; the romantic canal
spanned by a decorative stone bridge; the long low pavilions on each
side of the castle; the formal circular garden in front of it. And what
opportunities were offered by the ancient park around the castle, its
dignified avenues, its magnificent trees, its fields, its river, its water
roses on the pond.

And then the guests themselves, wandering reverently along the
garden paths, discussing under old trees the deepest problems of life,
and greeting one another with smiles of forgiveness and looks of
understanding.

There were fair Scandinavian girls with transparent complexions,
and voices so soft that they seemed incapable of saying any but the
holiest of things. Some of them helped in the kitchen, others in the
offices, and in the evenings they sat together and held one another's
hands. Though I have not found out for certain, I imagine that they
were 'disciples' who had been driven by faith to leave their comfort-
able homes in Oslo or Stockholm and to come to the castle to work
for the common good. There were several Americans in whose mouths

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

the masters, gurus and astral worlds used to lose all their ethereal
qualities and become convincingly matter of fact. There was a very
learned French lady with at least three daughters who looked as
though they preferred the Cote d'Azur to the Dutch scenery, but had
to content themselves with their mother's knowledge of all sorts of
devas, Chinese saints and Tibetan gomtchengs. There was an Italian
countess who was always telling me of yet another dream she had
had about Krishnamurti; and there were several elderly English
ladies, quiet, kind, helpful, and wearing a surprising amount of
jewelry, though their jewels, even if less obvious, were in a way like
the taboos and charms of African Negroes, made of lions' teeth or
human bones, since although they were mostly of gold and often of
precious stones, their triangular or circular shapes showed clearly
that they were worn for their symbolical significance and not in order
to satisfy a craving after beauty. Then there were several Indians of
indeterminate age but obviously higher education, who at night would
sometimes appear in their attractive native coats, with tight white
trousers and coloured shoes, the envy of their American, Dutch,
British and Scandinavian brethren, many of whom wore homely
sandals and looked altogether less picturesque. Some charming
Australians and Anglo-Indians and a Scottish couple completed the
house-party.

The writer of fiction would have found even better models and
more vivid 'local colour' in the large camp, situated in the woods a
couple of miles outside the castle. Such readers as have ever attended
a theosophical or practically any sort of religious convention will
know the type, and I shall refrain from describing it at length. They
generally abhor the idea of meat as violently as that of wine or tobac-
co; they look deep into your eyes when they talk to you; they have a
weakness for sandals, for clothes without any particular distinction
of shape, for the rougher kind of texiles and such colours as mauve,
bottle-green and purple. The men affect long hair, while the women
keep theirs short. There were several workmen and farmers among
them who had been saving up their money for several years in order
to come here. Two German youths had walked for two or three weeks
from a distant part of Germany. Indeed, the three thousand visitors
would have been worthy of a much more gifted pen than mine.

The organization of the camf> lay in the hands of a few Dutch
followers of Krishnamurti, experienced business men, who had suc-
ceeded in turning out this model camp city in the midst of uninhabited

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

forests and fields. Tourists and journalists from many countries
arrived solely to visit the camp, and organizers of similar gatherings
would come from distant countries in order to learn from the organiza-
tion at Ommen. There were rows upon rows of tents of all sizes; there
were shower baths, attractive huts with post office, bookshops, photo-
grapher, ambulance and information bureau. In huge dining-tents
excellent vegetarian meals were served; there was a lecture tent with
seats for three thousand people and there was even an open-air
theatre. Everywhere one found helpful guides and interpreters and a
fine spirit of fellowship.

As the Dutch summer was at times trying — with incessant rain and
icy winds — the nerves of the people must have been somewhat strained.
Harmony could be achieved only by self-discipline. Ignorance of the
language was, no doubt, a tiresome handicap for many people. Some
of them must have come merely for the sake of a new experience and
for human fellowship, for the Serbs and Russians, South Americans,
Rumanians, Turks and Greeks who hardly knew one word of English
could not understand much during the lectures. And yet most of them
remained happy till the very last day. This was undoubtedly due, to a
very great extent, to the efficiency of the organization.

As I did not live in camp, which I visited only for the lectures and
an occasional meal, I knew the routine of life at the castle much better.

Since the castle itself was not large enough to accommodate the
twenty or more personal guests of Krishnamurti, most of us were put
up in the long pavilion flanking the castle. Besides Krishnamurti
and his closest friend Rajagopal, the head of the whole organization,
only a few friends stayed within the castle itself. The dining-room,
library, reception rooms and offices were on the ground floor. In the
reception rooms there were several attractive pieces of Dutch furni-
ture, and the main room, called the state room, contained, besides
some fine panelling, four handsome Flemish tapestries specially
made for the castle. An ingeniously constructed wooden Louis
XIV staircase led from the entrance hall to the first floor and to the
bedrooms.

The former owner of the castle, 6aron van Pallandt, was a quiet
middle-aged gentleman, who had kept for himself only one or two of
the castle rooms. He went on administering the big estate, and all the

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

secretarial, clerical and household work, besides that of organizing
the movement itself, was done voluntarily.

I stayed in one of the two pavilions, where all the rooms were alike
— simple, attractive and comfortable. Every visitor had to look after
his own room and make his own bed. When, however, after a day or
two some kind spirit had discovered that my talent for manual
domestic work was more original than effective, my services in this
direction were no longer expected, and for the remainder of my stay
there, whenever I returned to my room after breakfast, I found that
my bed had already been made with enviable skill.

In the morning we assembled in the big state room. We took off our
shoes — more experienced guests than myself would appear in bed-
room slippers — and sat down on the floor to meditate. Perhaps it
was my native cynicism that prevented my enjoying the morning
meditations as much as I ought to have done. It always put me into
the wrong frame of mind.

There were several problems connected with the morning medi-
tations about which I wished to be enlightened. Of course I might
have asked any of the other twelve or fifteen fellow guests attending
this service, but I could never summon the courage to do this, for
fear lest they might find out how ignorant I really was. I wanted to
ask them whether they considered it necessary to meditate in a crowd.
I sincerely believed in meditation, but I always found it much more
successful in solitude or with a single companion. Just when I was
getting into the right frame of mind, one of the meditators must
needs sneeze or cough, and thereupon all my limited powers of con-
centration would be dissipated.

And I should have liked also to ask whether it was essential to sit
on the floor without having been instructed previously how to do it.
Most of us had been brought up in the Western world, and were not
used to Eastern attitudes. I found that my attention had to be directed
towards my aching spine and ankles, and a good deal of the energy
that was wanted for a better purpose was thus wasted. Eastern pos-
tures for meditation are taught solely by the yoga of body control,
and can be learnt successfully only in the Far East. Of the eighty-four
different postures for the various meditations, only the first few have
ever been mastered by any European. Even the elementary 'lotus
posture' which is indispensabfe to meditation done in the pose
adopted by my fellow meditators, can only be comfortably assumed
after many patient and painful exercises. How, then, could I expect

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

all these people, most of whom had never been to the East, or under-
gone the essential training, to have the necessary command over their
bodies? I could see for myself that hardly one of them was sitting in
the correct attitude — that of intertwined ankles and straight spine.
Possibly the worst indication of my own immaturity was to be found
in the fact that the sight of all these people sitting there in stockinged
feet always evoked in me a schoolboy propensity for practical joking.

Had it not been for my shortcomings, the morning meditations
would undoubtedly have provided me with a source of inspiration.
Someone read aloud a few words — I believe it was always one of
Krishnamurti's sayings — and after that we were meant to meditate
upon it. The tightly shut eyes of the other guests made me feel very
envious of the wonderful ten minutes they were spending on some
blissful plane.

From the state room we moved into the dining-room for breakfast,
which was always an enjoyable meal, with excellent honey and
delectable nut pastes. Lunch, too, was a very attractive meal, not
only by virtue of the quality of the vegetarian dishes but equally be-
cause hunger, and the pleasure of satisfying it, induced many of the
guests to cast off their reserve and to show greater individuality of
character than conversation at other times had led one to expect.

As a rule everyone attended to his own wants, but I was often per-
mitted to wait on Annie Besant, and I several times had the privilege
of sitting next to her at meals, and each time it was a joy to be near
this exceptional woman. There was a childlike quality about her —
not the childishness of old age, but rather the essential simplicity and
happy disposition of childhood itself. You felt that she knew so
much more than anybody else present; but her greater wisdom and
experience never interfered with her manner of treating even the
youngest members of the party as her equals.

The saintliness that hung over Eerde, like a pink cloud in a play,
made me somewhat sceptical; and yet the first meeting between Annie
Besant and Krishnamurti on her arrival at the castle had greatly im-
pressed me.

Krishnamurti had been waiting for the car that was bringing his
guest, in the circular garden in front of the castle. He was by himself
and we, his other guests, kept in the background. One could see that
he was nervous. When the car arrived, Krishnamurti walked up to it
to open the door. Annie Besant appeared, dressed in white Indian
robes with white shoes, and a white shawl over her snow-white hair.

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

Krishnamurti bowed his head and kissed the old lady's hand. She
in her turn put both her hands on his black hair and whispered a few
words to him. In her face there was the expression of the deepest
tenderness, and I could see that she was crying. It was obvious that
their welcome was an expression of their personal affection for each
other and had nothing to do with their theosophical relationship.
Krishnamurti took Annie Besant's arm and led her slowly towards
the castle. We were introduced to her and shook hands. Her eyes
were still moist and the loving smile was still lingering on her lips.

Krishnamurti hardly ever came down to breakfast. Generally he
remained in his bedroom. It was a very simple bedroom, and must
have been the smallest in the castle. Each morning after breakfast
some of his most intimate fellow workers used to walk up the stair-
case and disappear into a room which connected with Krishnamurti's
bedroom. My curiosity was pricked by these morning processions. I
imagined mysterious happenings behind the doors: special initiations
or mental exercises of a higher order, reserved only for the * inner
circle'. I never found out what went on behind the doors — probably
household bills and questions of daily routine were discussed.

In the mornings and on most afternoons there were lectures in
the big tent in the woods. Krishnamurti spoke almost every day; and
then there followed speeches by Annie Besant, Mr. Jinarajadasa, the
vice-president of the Theosophical Society, a Frenchman Prof.
Marcault, a Dutch scholar Dr. van der Leeuw, and one or two
other followers of Krishnamurti. The main tenor of Krishnamurti's
talks was that the kingdom of happiness lies within ourselves, and
the other lecturers spoke on very much the same lines. Krishnamurti's
principal talks were of an autobiographical kind, and he tried to ex-
plain in them how he himself had found truth by giving up all con-
ventional conceptions of life one after another.

There were several meetings at the castle in the afternoon, and
often at these there were visitors, both legitimate and also of a less
legitimate but more intrusive kind. Many people from the camp
would come to see the home in which their prophet lived. They were
taken inside the castle and along the quiet garden paths, and they
often hardly dared utter a word. There were also sightseers and
tourists, who had heard of the new messiah from India and who
would peep through the gates a£ though expecting strange miracles
to occur at any moment. They looked at Krishnamurti's guests,
apparently convinced that we were the disciples of a magician or of

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

a yogi. Each time I left the castle or came back, I noticed the in-
quisitive glances of the occupants of some motor car, and I would
hear their interested chatter. This embarrassed me and made me
wish that I had the power to produce white rabbits from my coat
pocket or flames from my mouth, since I always felt as though the
people in the cars were not being treated with that consideration to
which they believed themselves entitled.

In the hall of the castle there was a very large and very new gramo-
phone, given to Krishnamurti by one of his admirers and placed here
for the enjoyment of the guests. I knew that Krishnamurti was a great
lover of music, and I caught him one evening sitting by himself in the
corner of a little study off the main hall. It was after dinner and the
room was quite dark. I can still remember the record : it was the slow
movement of the G Minor Quartette by Debussy — that almost unreal
piece of strangely coloured cascades and sudden melancholy halts.
Whenever I hear that movement I see the night over the castle and
Krishnamurti sitting by himself in the little room and listening joy-
fully to the violins.

Several members of our house-party were fond of music, and would
spend the evening listening to the gramophone. The prevailing taste
seemed to be Parsifal, Gotterdammerung, and Siegfried. The listeners
would sit in just those attitudes in which you would have expected to
find them, when revelling in the superior boredom of Kundry's end-
less laments or Siegfried's narratives. Their eyes were closed, their
souls no doubt very wide open, in their faces was a mixture of happi-
ness and reverence, and you could see all the silver and mauve
ethereal pictures that the music painted for them. Perhaps I was too
frivolous for them, and at times I would become genuinely alarmed
by my cynicism, and would decide never again to make critical com-
ments even to myself. And yet there was one thing which gave real
cause for a certain irritation.

My inability to find the true meaning of Krishnamurti's teaching
led to the anxiety that my visit might be an utter failure. Krishna-
murti's lectures were too vague to give me clear answers to any of my
questions.

I had been hoping to find those answers among the people who
stayed at the castle and who must have known exactly what was to be
understood. They were only too willing to help me; but it seemed to

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

me that they had all sacrificed their personalities in order to become
members of the Order of the Star in the East. I talked to many of
them in the course of the day, but they left too little impression to
enable me to distinguish them in my mind later on. They all met me
halfway; and they would talk of reincarnation and karma with an
understanding smile on their lips and as though they were speaking
of the next train from Ommen to the Hook of Holland. They did
their very best to copy Krishnamurti, to be kind and sincere or to
make jokes and show how jolly they were. But I was not among
doctors, farmers, schoolmasters, politicians, housewives; I was just
among theosophists and members of the Order of the Star. I had
expected that their new spiritual experience would have made them
more enlightened about their former problems; that they would talk
with greater understanding about the world at large. There were
political and economical congresses, religious disputes, naval con-
ferences going on all over the world; new movements in art, in
literature, music, the theatre, the cinema were being experimented
with; the world talked of unemployment and reparations; there were
thousands of things that had to be discussed, improved upon — but
none of them seemed to have penetrated the woods of Eerde.

One day I was told that the moment had arrived when Krish-
namurti's message would be heard by the outside world which had
hitherto known it only through distorted newspaper reports. A new
organ was to be founded. My opinion was sought, since I had had
some experience and enjoyed press connections that might be helpful.
The publications of the Order of the Star — periodicals, pamphlets
and news-sheets — were run by amateurs. I knew that the outside
world could only be reached if one were to use a language intelligible
to it. Devotional poetry, accounts of personal visions were not likely
to convince men and women used to a matter-of-fact world. Those
lawyers, business men, theologians and scientists of the outside
world would only grasp Krishnamurti's ideas if they could be pre-
sented in a clear and sober way. People must see that they were deal-
ing not with dreamers but with men who knew the world and her
needs better than others did, and who therefore might be able to
solve some of the most pressing problems.

The few people with whom the plans were discussed listened
patiently to my suggestions; they nodded obligingly, and assured me
that this was the right way to proceed. In actual practice not one of
these suggestions was adopted, and the events of the following

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

months showed that a metaphorical and semi-theosophical jargon
was still being employed for enlightening the world at large about
the 'World Teacher'.

VII

I am sure that none but myself was to blame for my intellectual
disappointment. The general atmosphere of adoration had put me
into a state of expectancy which simply could not be satisfied anyhow
or by anyone. My intellectual upbringing had made me expect a
clearer message than Krishnamurti was willing or able to offer. I
had not yet found in his friends and followers that inner readjust-
ment to life that would have allowed me to accept the new message
in the form in which it was offered.

I had gathered enough to see that Krishnamurti's teaching was not
Eastern — that it repudiated passivity. Everyone should find truth for
himself; should listen to no-one but himself; should consider unifica-
tion with happiness as the final goal. But when I asked how this could
be achieved I received no clear answers. It is not enough to see the
summit of Mont Blanc. If we want to reach the top, we must be
informed as to the most advantageous season, the best route, and
such details of equipment as the most suitable boots to wear. Most
of Krishnamurti's answers would be dissipated in similes and meta-
phors. You asked him about your personal troubles, your religious
beliefs, your intellectual doubts, your emotional difficulties, and he
would talk to you about mountain peaks and streams running
through fields. When asked about his own road and the road along
which one might find happiness, he would answer: The direct path,
which I have trodden, you will tread when you leave on one side the
paths that lead to complications. That path alone gives you the
understanding of life. ... If you are walking along the straight path,
you need no signposts.' But where, exactly, the direct path lay, or
how we were to find it, he did not disclose. The very same day
Krishnamurti might renounce all paths and say that no one path
was better than any other.

I had several talks with him, and each time I eagerly looked for-
ward to our meeting. We would talk as we walked through the woods
and across the fields of Eerde. One afternoon we suddenly found
ourselves in front of a charming litlle house, flat roofed and rather
modern, surrounded by high trees but with a view on one side across
the fields. It was Krishnamurti's retreat, a self-contained little home,

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

where he could get away from people, meditate and rest in solitude,
He must have been very sensitive to solitude. He was not very strong
physically, and though he went in for all sorts of games and was a
great lover of lawn tennis, he remained rather delicate. The camp
with its thousands of people, with its daily lectures, interviews and
visitors, must have been a heavy strain on his health.

I found no further intellectual satisfaction either in Krishnamurti's
lectures or in his books, and I wondered whether this was not due
to his Eastern origin. On the other hand, I had experienced no similar
difficulties when reading the writings of Eastern sages. Even if one
did not grasp their full meaning, there still remained enough to pro-
vide intellectual contentment. Among the books by Krishnamurti
that I tried to read were Temple Talks, The Kingdom of Happiness
and The Pool of Wisdom. There were also a few volumes of poetry.
I admired their oriental beauty and their deep ring of sincerity, but
I was baffled by their vagueness. It is certainly unfair to judge lyrical
poetry by the same rules as those by which we attempt to judge
scientific books. On the other hand Krishnamurti's poetry was
supposed to contain not only the lyrical confession of a sensitive
youth with the gift for poetry but also the account of a deep spiritual
experience. When I read:

'As the flower contains the scent,
So I hold Thee,
O world,
In my heart.

Keep me within the heart.
For I am liberation
And happiness.

As the precious stone
Lies deep in the earth,
So I am hidden
Deep in thy heart . . .'

I enjoyed the beauty of the poem and I felt the truth in it. But this
poem, called 'I am with thee' and written in 1927, was considered by
Krishnamurti's followers and even his biographer Lily Heber as of
great importance. I seemed to rSmember having seen poems of that
kind in various anthologies containing Eastern poetry. At times you
would even find such poems in those slender volumes published by
G 97

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

young men who had come down from Oxford and Cambridge and
had been greeted by some of the London critics with prophecies of
a splendid literary future.

But we were not dealing with a talented young man whose earlier
poems had been accepted by the Editor of the Oxford Outlook. We
were dealing with a teacher who did not repudiate this title; who
allowed thousands to come and listen to him and to expect guiding
principles from him, and who must have been conscious of the
immense responsibility that all this implied. I felt that I had a right
not only to expect answers but even to expect them in a language
that I could understand; in a language that was common to people
of the Western world. I even felt entitled to expect perfection in every-
thing he said or did. The xmity between the content and the form was
of great importance in a person like Krishnamurti. When I read:

' Thou must cleanse thyself
Of the conceit of little knowledge ;
Thou must purify thyself
Of thy heart and mind;
Thou must renounce all
Thy companions,
Thy friends, thy family,
Thy father, thy mother,
Thy sister and thy brother ;
Yea,

Thou must renounce all;
Thou must destroy
Thy self utterly
To find the beloved.9

I could see a glimpse of Krishnamurti's philosophy, but I felt that
the same truth might have been expressed less pretentiously: 'Thou
must purify thyself of thy heart and mind. Thou must renounce all
thy companions, thy friends, thy family, thy father, thy mother, thy
sister and thy brother . . .* If we write these lines without the lineal
demarcation of poetry we acknowledge at once the fine statement
contained in them, but we do not maintain that they are poetry. And
yet I wanted Krishnamurti to write poetry that would convince
people, and such as I might show to my sceptical friends.

When after a certain time I was able to perceive the main idea of
Krishnamurti's teaching I understood that it was complete libera-

THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

tion, which means complete happiness. It is achieved by love and it
rests within our own inherent power. Krishnamurti defined it in
later years when he said: 'The goal of human feeling is love which is
complete in itself, utterly detached, knowing neither subject nor
object, a love which gives equally to all without demanding anything
whatever in return, a love which is its own eternity.'

As far as I understand, this is the teaching of Christ, the teaching
of Buddha. We all heard these words when we were given our first
religious instruction. I asked myself, therefore: If Krishnamurti's
teaching is just a repetition of the teaching of Christ, or of Buddha,
then why all this theosophical background; why the Star in the
East, that huge organisation; why the talk of a new path; why the
followers, camps and labels? Would it not have been wiser to remain
in our old-established Churches which give us clearer words for all
these messages? Is it all humbug?

I was very fond of Krishnamurti, otherwise I should have left
Eerde after the first few days. But I wanted Krishnamurti to be able
to help me in my own way, and to help the other three thousand
people in their own way. I wanted to be able to convince the cynic
within myself that Krishnamurti was right and capable of helping,
and that he had fulfilled my highest expectations. Instead, I felt
uncomfortable when the Saul within myself would say to the Paul
after every talk I had with Krishnamurti: 'Wasn't I right? Did you
grasp more to-day than yesterday? Didn't I tell you it would be a
waste of time? Why don't you talk instead to the rivers and the trees?
Their language will be more intelligible.'

And yet there were people, with less intellectual resistance, who
perceived Krishnamurti's message quite clearly. Looking back on
those days I am particularly struck by the impression Krishnamurti
made on a man brought up in the rough school of English working-
class life, a man matured in political battles. I mean George Lans-
bury. This is what the old labour leader wrote after one of the meet-
ings at Ommen: 'I have seen the glorious march of the Socialists in
Paris, in Brussels, in Stockholm and in our own country, and I
have seen them sitting and standing round our platform. But I think
that these gatherings round the camp fire . . . are somehow the most
wonderful sight of all. . . . When we Socialists come together, we
come together pledging oursefves to fight in order to raise the
material conditions of ourselves and our fellows. Round this camp
fire we were listening to one who is teaching us the hardest of all

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

truths . . . that if mankind is to be redeemed it must be redeemed
through the individual action of each one of us. ... There must be
great hope for the future . . . whilst there are living in our midst
those who are inspired by a great ideal — to work and toil for im-
personal causes.'

I hoped that Mr. Lansbury was right, and that some of the
characteristics that I seemed to have found among Krishnamurti's
followers were only evident when they were all together. They may
have talked and behaved in quite a different manner when left to
themselves in their normal surroundings. Perhaps all these people
were really leaders in their various professions, efficient and capable
of reforming their individual worlds in a direction that had disclosed
itself to them during their visit to Eerde. Perhaps it was only due to
blindness on my own part that even when I saw them later in London
at one or two gatherings and in several offices, I again had the
impression they had given me at Ommen.

Though my intellect remained critical, I felt that I was indeed
becoming happier every day through my contact with Krishnamurti,
and that only intellectual barriers within myself prevented me from
accepting him as wholeheartedly as I longed to do. But even this
reaction irritated me. I knew that the three thousand people who
had come here were as anxious to catch his smile and were almost
in a fever every time Krishnaji, as they called him affectionately,
addressed or approached them. I had imagined myself more critical
than they.

VIII

Only the evenings round the camp fire were really impressive.
After dinner we would drive out in cars belonging to members of our
house-party to the camp fire in the woods. A large amphitheatre
had been built there, with innumerable circular rows of seats; in their
midst was Krishnamurti's own seat. This was made of large tree
trunks and suggested some huge Niebelungen throne. Each time I
saw this seat I imagined that Wotan and Hunding and the many
substantial valkyries must have sat in such chairs when attending a
family party in Valhalla. Krishnamurti, slender, dark, rather shy,
looked strange and lost on his Wagnerian throne.

Most of the people who had comd to the camp at Ommen looked
upon the evening gatherings, quite rightly, as the climax of the day.
Krishnamurti, stepping into the centre of the amphitheatre where a

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THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

huge heap of wood for a beacon had been prepared, would kindle
it and stand in front of it for a few minutes watching the fire grow
higher and higher. Then he would walk back slowly to his seat.
Smoke would begin to rise to the sky and the flames would suffuse
thousands of eager faces with a red glow. Many members of the
audience were sitting with their hands resting quietly in their laps
and their eyes shut, and you could see how deeply they enjoyed the
moment. In the evenings there was a festive feeling, there was an
atmosphere of human fellowship and spiritual satisfaction. It was a
real holiday to the three thousand people. On one or two occasions
the light of the flames and the last pink of a sun that had disappeared
more than an hour ago would merge into each other and would
produce striking colour effects in which, I daresay, some of the
people present discovered symbolical meanings.

I have never heard Krishnamurti speak so well as he did in the
evenings round the camp fire. On the whole he was not a very effect-
ive speaker; he often repeated himself; he often halted; and many
of his sentences were too long. His hold over the masses was not
due to any forensic talents. In the evening his words seemed to
come more easily to him, and his voice would carry melodiously
across the silent crowd, the pictures evoked by his words becoming
more clearly visible and the whole atmosphere more convincing.

Now and then he would begin an Indian chant at the end of the
evening, and on such occasions he was even more impressive than
during his speech. Though he spoke English with mastery, you could
not help feeling that English was not his language. It was, I remember
thinking at the time, the melodious quality of his voice that may have
given that impression. In the evenings round the camp fire the con-
trast between his entire personality and the English language would
become more striking. For he then wore Indian clothes, a
simple brown coat reaching below the knees and buttoned up to the
neck, tight white trousers and white shoes, and his appearance would
only emphasize the emotion produced by his voice. During the
Indian chants the precise meaning of his words seemed to matter
little, and there was no longer a gulf between the man and his words.
In the unintelligible Hindustani there was the magic sound that
words assume in a strange tongue.

After his chants Krishnamurti1 would sit silently for a few minutes,
with an expression of great serenity on his face. He would then leave
his seat and walk away to the car that took him back to the castle.

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

One or two experiences may help to show what a real influence
Krishnainurti had on my life. It may be considered a mere coinci-
dence that when I met Krishnamurti for the first time, on that rainy
Sunday morning in Westminster, I gave up smoking. I had smoked
since I was seventeen, usually thirty cigarettes a day, and I had
become something of a slave to the habit. Nevertheless I had never
tried to give up smoking, because I had never seen any convincing
reason for so doing. Even to-day I cannot explain clearly why I
should have given it up the day I met Krishnamurti. We did not
discuss the subject; I did not know that he himself did not smoke.
And yet to give up smoking at once seemed the most natural thing.
Though I carried a cigarette case in my pocket for many days I
never felt tempted to light another cigarette. Nor have I smoked
since.

The other incident is more difficult to describe. I had been trying
for a long time to meditate in the evenings on a particular subject. I
used to do it in bed before going to sleep. For months on end I would
reach a certain point in my meditation after which it would break
up. Either my attention would falter or else I fell asleep before
getting beyond the particular point. A few days after I had met
Krishnamurti I succeeded for the first time. I experienced the feeling
of sinking into a deep well. Though the well seemed bottomless I
had simultaneously the two opposed sensations of going on sinking
and yet of having reached the bottom. This was accompanied by a
very vivid impression of light. The strongest impression, however,
was of receiving at once an emotional shock and a mathematical
revelation. It is difficult to describe this last sensation: no metaphor
or comparison represents it correctly. Though I do not claim any
mystical significance for my experience, I can best translate it into
words by quoting an abler pen than my own. When Dean Inge once
described mystical experiences he said: 'What can be described and
handed on is not the vision itself but the inadequate symbols in which
the seer tries to preserve it in his memory. . . . But such experiences,
which rather possess a man than are possessed by him, are in their
nature as transient as the glories of a sunset. . . . Language, which
was not made for such purposes, fails lamentably to reproduce even
their pale reflection.' What, however, can be said is the fact that the
culminating point of my experience made me unspeakably happy.

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THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S

It was such an acute happiness that it was almost like a feeling of
physical delight or physical pain. The division between delight and
pain seemed lifted. How long the moment lasted I could not tell;
but I imagine it to have been no more than the fraction of a second.
When it was all over, I was awake and fully conscious, and I recorded
my experience to myself with a feeling of deep gratitude.

The above experiences showed me that Krishnamurti's effect upon
me was vital enough to act even against my intellectual resistance.

In the summer of 1929 I found in a newspaper a report which
described at some length how Krishnamurti had suddenly dissolved
the Order of the Star, broken deliberately all connections with the
Theosophical Society and their teaching about himself, and re-
nounced all the claims that had been made in his name. He had,
then, at last summoned the courage to sever all the ties that had held
back his own spiritual convictions through so many years, and that
had forced him to act in the shadow of what looked like spiritual
usurpation.

The recent rupture had taken place on 3 August 1929 at the yearly
summer camp at Ommen. Krishnamurti decided to renounce all the
authority that thousands of people had been using as comfortable
crutches for their own spiritual incapacity. This is how Mr. Theodore
Besterman described the critical meeting in his biography of Mrs.
Besant: 'One morning Mr. Krishnamurti rose to deliver his address
to the assembled campers. It could be seen at once that he was now
speaking for himself and not merely as a mouthpiece; and his words
confirmed the impression in no dubious manner. ... He announced
the dissolution of the Order of the Star and at one blow laid low the
whole elaborate structure so painfully and painstakingly built up by
Mrs. Besant during the past eighteen years. "I maintain", Krishna-
murti said, "that Truth is a pathless land, and you cannot approach
it by any path whatsoever, by any religion, by any sect. That is my
point of view and I adhere to that absolutely and unconditionally.
... A belief is purely an individual matter, and you cannot and must
not organize it." He declared that he did not want followers ... he
made it unmistakably clear that his words were directed against
those who had built up the elaborate structure for him during those
eighteen years. Krishnamurti added: "You have been preparing for

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

this event, for the coming of the World Teacher. For eighteen years
you have organized, you have looked for someone who would give
a new delight to your hearts . . . who would set you free. ... In
what matter has such a belief swept away all the unessential things
in life? In what way are you freer, greater? ..." Mr. Krishnamurti
continued: "You can form other organizations and expect someone
else. With that I am not concerned, nor with creating new cages.
. . . My only concern is to set men absolutely, unconditionally free."
After this Mr. Krishnamurti gave up all the possessions heaped upon
him, and gradually severed his connection with all organizations.'

It was not difficult to perceive what enormous courage it needed
to make such a far-reaching decision. To understand its magnitude
one has to remember what Krishnamurti was renouncing. There
existed an organization with many thousands of members; there
were platforms from which to speak in the four most important cor-
ners of the globe; there was an independent commercial organization
with its magazines, its books and various publications in a dozen
different languages; there were helpers among all classes of society,
willing to make practically any mental or material sacrifice; there
was, in short, a working machine for the transmission of a spiritual
message, as powerful as any institution had ever been. To understand
what it must have meant to give it all up, one has to visualize the
money, the worry, the energy, the time needed for the establishment
of an organization for the disseminating of non-commercial ideals,
no matter whether of a religious, social, political, intellectual or any
other kind. To throw it overboard as though it meant nothing re-
quired personal courage, moral integrity and spiritual conviction.

I was glad that I had doubted neither Krishnamurti's sincerity
nor his intrinsic spiritual value. The events of August 1929 strength-
ened the impression I had received when the young Indian entered
the dark panelled room in Westminster. Had I not suddenly seen
that it mattered little what his life had been up till then? And had I
not felt that his personality had nothing in common with the striking
headlines in the newspapers?

104

CHAPTER II

PORTRAIT OF A "PERFECT MASTER"
Shri Meher Baba

When I arrived, a procession of his disciples filed out. First a
bevy of beautiful young girls passed me, then several young
Indians departed. Meher Baba was sitting on a sofa. He wore a
dressing gown, and a soft blue silken scarf round his neck.

* He is a slender man of thirty-eight, but he looks ten years younger.
He wears his dark brown hair very long. It flows down to his
shoulders. He reminded me of the young Paderewski. . . . The chin
is rather pointed and not powerful. . . . His eyes sparkle with happi-
ness and serene joy. ... He is ebulliently healthy. . . . His hands are
eloquently artistic. They talk. They are hypnotic. He has immense
magnetism. As I entered the room I felt a rush of personal fascination

and force As he grasped my hand I felt a strange thrill During

our talk he perpetually caressed me, laying his hand on mine, or
touching me on the back. A very magnetic personality. ... I melted
under his enchantment in spite of my caution. Meher Baba does not
speak. . . . Our talk was conducted through a young Indian who
rapidly interpreted the master's signs. On his knees rested a small
board with the letters of the Roman alphabet painted on it. His slim
fingers flicked from letter to letter. . . . His interpreter reads the

alphabet I had prepared a questionnaire with the help of Sir Deni-

son Ross, the oriental scholar. It was designed to trap the teacher,
but he smilingly threaded his way through it without stumbling. . . .
"Do you know Gandhi?" I asked. "Yes, he is not as far advanced

as I am. He asked me to help him " " Are you divine?" He smiled.

"I am one with God. I live in Him like Buddha, like Christ, like
Krishna. They knew Him as I know Him. . . ." "Is there any way
out of the world crisis?" "Yes." "How long will it last?" "Only
another year.'"

The above prophecy was published early in 1932. It was contained
in an interview which appeared on the front page of the London

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

Sunday Express, and was preceded by ten large headlines, two of
which ran across the whole page. In the middle there was a large
photograph of Shri Sadguru Meher Baba. The author of the inter-
view was the popular British journalist, Mr. James Douglas, a well-
known writer of religious and moral articles.

A few weeks after the publication of Mr. Douglas's article I had
an interview with Shri Meher Baba. It had been arranged by one of
his chief British disciples.

I arrived on a chilly spring morning at one of those large houses off
Lancaster Gate, which might once in opulent Edwardian days have
been attractive but had become gloomy and uncared for since they
had been transformed into understaffed lodgings, boarding houses
and residential hotels. I was received by a somewhat forbidding
domestic who said that she would call 'one of them Arabs' for me;
but after a few minutes a more presentable young woman appeared,
only to assure me that nothing was known to her about an interview
— if, however, I maintained that an interview had been arranged,
it was probably so, and she would immediately inquire. A few
minutes later a little Indian with a kind face appeared. He wore
European clothes and had a black moustache. 'Oh yes, Mr. Shri
Meher Baba will be delighted to see you; he knows all about you,
and it won't be a moment.' After he went, I counted for about twenty
minutes the number of leaves in the pattern of the wallpaper in the
narrow entrance hall. Eventually, however, another lady appeared
and asked me to follow her upstairs.

I climbed five flights of stairs, and was received on the top landing
by another little man with a black moustache. He, too, had an
inviting smile, and he said: 'Please, do come in. Mr. Shri Meher
Baba has been expecting you.' He opened the door, and I found
myself in a small bedroom. The bed had not been made yet, and the
furniture was simple and typical of the smaller residential hotels in
the district.

Shri Meher Baba (whom I shall call for simplicity's sake Baba)
was sitting in the middle of the room in an easy chair. He corres-
ponded in his appearance exactly to the description by Mr. James
Douglas, but I waited in vain for the 'rush of personal fascin-
ation and force'; I missed the 'strange thrill' when he grasped my
hand, and though he 'caressed me, laying his hand on mine', I
could not make myself 'melt away under his enchantment'. He
was wearing a dressing-gown, bedroom slippers and a woollen

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SHRI MEHER BABA

PORTRAIT OF A "PERFECT MASTER"

scarf round his neck. He was holding in his hands the little black-
board with the white letters of the Roman alphabet written upon
it. Two Indian interpreters were placed behind him, and they inter-
preted to me each of the many quick movements of Baba's flickering
fingers.

Unfortunately my questions must have been badly prepared, or
awkwardly presented, for the answer was almost invariably: 'This
question requires a more elaborate answer and a longer discussion.
I shall have to write this answer to you in a day or two.' After this
had been going on for about three-quarters of an hour I decided
that it would be unfair to trespass any longer on my host's time. I
had been informed that Baba was leaving for America in a few days'
time, and I was certain that he had a lot to do before his departure.
But, after I had turned towards the door, Baba suddenly began
making more signs on his board. One of his two interpreters stopped
me: 'Baba says that he is going to help you in the future.' I was
taken by surprise, and though I tried to express thanks for this un-
sought promise, I must have done so not without embarrassment.

Ill

A thick letter from Baba arrived a week after my interview, con-
taining a number of sheets of paper, covered with the handwritten
answers to my questions.

'The spiritual revival that you ask about', said the letter, 'is not
very far off and I am going to bring it about in the near future,
utilizing the tremendous amount of misapplied energy possessed by
America for the purpose. Such a spiritual outburst as I visualize
usually takes place every seven or eight hundred years, at the end or
beginning of a cycle, and it is only the Perfect One, who has reached
the Christ state of consciousness, that can appeal and work so very
universally. My work will embrace everything; it will affect and con-
trol every phase of life. ... In the general spiritual push that I shall
impart to the world, problems such as politics, economics and sex
. . . will all be automatically solved and adjusted. All collective
movements and religions hinge round one personality who supplies
the motive force — without this centrifugal force all movements are
bound to fail. . . . Perfect masters impart spirituality by personal
contact and influence, and the benefit that will accrue to different
nations, when 1 bring about the spiritual upheaval, will largely

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depend upon the amount of energy each one possesses.' There fol-
lowed several passages about the possibility of performing miracles,
and on the last page I found the following sentences: 'I now take
orders from no-one; it is all my supreme will. Everything is, because
I will it to be. Nothing is beyond my knowledge; I am in everything.
There is no time and space for me, it is I who give them their relative
existence. I see the past and the future as clearly and vividly as you
see material things about you.'

When I read these statements Baba was on his way to the country
in which he was to utilize the * tremendous amount of misapplied
energy* for the bringing about of a spiritual revival. A few weeks
later I received a letter from the English disciple, through whose help
I had been granted my interview, and who was now among those
who accompanied Baba on his trip to America. He wrote from
Hollywood: 'We arrived in Los Angeles two weeks ago to-day. Baba
had a terrific amount of work there, and none of us had more than
four hours' sleep a night, there was so much to be done. In addition
to all the private interviews, he had one general reception given at
the Knickerbocker Hotel, Hollywood, where over a thousand people
came . . . another one given to him by Douglas Fairbanks and Mary
Pickford. ... He went several times to Paramount Studios and also
to Universal and Metro-Goldwyn. I am so grateful to you for your
letters of introduction to Sternberg and Lubitsch. They were both
charming to us. We went to Paramount to meet Sternberg and
Marlene Dietrich, and the next day we motored to Santa Monica
to have tea with Lubitsch. . . . Baba liked them both very much, and
is looking forward to seeing them again. He also saw Tallulah
Bankhead several times, Marie Dressier, Gary Cooper, Tom Mix,
Virginia Bruce, Maurice Chevalier and a good many others.'

At the same time there appeared an article in Everyman in which
the editor published a biographical sketch of Baba under the title
fc More about the Perfect Master'. Its main facts were: 'Shri Sadguru
Meher Baba is a Persian born in Poona, South India, on 25 February
1895. . . . His father is a Zoroastrian, and Meher Baba was brought
up in that religion. He went to school and college in Poona. When
he was seventeen he was met by Shri Hazrat Babajan, an ancient
woman, as a result of which Meher Baba entered a superconscious

108

PORTRAIT OF A "PERFECT MASTER"

state in which he remained for nine months entirely oblivious
of earthly life. It took seven years before he regained normal human
consciousness. During the whole of that time he had to be taken
care of. His return to normal consciousness was brought about in
1921.'

The strange meeting with the ' ancient woman' consisted apparently
of a kiss. But this kiss had the most far-reaching consequences. Baba
himself described this incident in the following words: 'Until then
I was worldly as other youths. Hazrat Babajan unlocked the door
for me. Her kiss was the turning point. I felt as though the universe
was receding into space; and I was left entirely alone. Yes — I was
alone with God. For months I could not sleep. And yet I grew
no weaker but remained as strong as before. My father did not
understand. ... He called in one doctor and then another. They
gave me medicines and tried injections, but they were all wrong. I
had lost hold of normal existence and it took me a long time to get
back.'

'He spent the first two years after that experience', continues the
editor of Everyman, 'in writing an account of what happened to
him. This book has not been seen by anyone. He never married;
nor did he ever engage in any trade or occupation; for he was still
at college when the experience I have mentioned came to him. His
time has been spent during the past eleven years in travelling through-
out India, alternating with periods of complete retirement. He visited
the West for the first time last September (1931) when he spent about
three weeks in England, and afterwards went to America for a few
weeks. . . . On his first visit to this country he saw a few people. . . .
On the present occasion, however, the news of his coming was spread
from India, and he was met on arrival with the full blast of British
newspaper publicity. ... He has not spoken for more than seven
years. . . . This silence is not the result of a vow, but is undertaken
for spiritual reasons. He says that he will break it soon in America/

Baba's spiritual message can be summed up in the few words
which he himself dictated to the press reporters who came to see him
when he arrived in England. He said: 'My coming to the West is
not with the object of establishing a new creed . . . but is intended to
make people understand religion in its true sense. True religion

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

consists of developing that attitude of mind which ultimately results
in seeing one infinite existence prevailing throughout the universe,
thus finding the same divinity in art and science and experiencing
the highest consciousness and invisible bliss in everyday life. . . .
Organized efforts such as the League of Nations are being made to
solve world problems. . . . This is like groping in the dark. I intend
to bring together all religions and cults like beads on one string
and to revitalize them for individual and collective needs. This is my
mission to the West.'

During the following months I met several of Baba's disciples,
and I was given many accounts of his powers and of his wisdom. A
journalist, Mr. Paul Brunton, decided to study Baba more closely,
and even went to visit him in India. He recorded his many meetings
with Baba in a very interesting book, A Search in Secret India.
One of his first interviews finished in a similar manner to that of
my own. Without having been asked for any help, Baba said to
Mr. Brunton: 'You are very fortunate. I will help you to obtain
advanced powers.' Though Mr. Brunton went out to India to stay
with Baba at his ashram, he did not receive any of the answers he
had been promised, and he left the Parsee in a state of disillusion-
ment. 'I find', he says in his book, 'that Meher Baba is a fallible
authority, a man subject to constantly changing moods, and an
egotist who demands complete enslavement on the part of his brain-
stupefied followers. And lastly I find that he is a prophet whose
predictions are seldom verified. . . .' In spite of this Mr. Bruton
continues: 'I candidly confess to myself. . . that Meher Baba pos-
sesses religious genius. Whatever success he may have will arise from
that last quality.'

A few years after my meeting with Baba I was given an oppor-
tunity of verifying his utterances to Mr. James Douglas with regard
to Gandhi. I was travelling to America in the same boat as Miss
Madeleine Slade, Gandhi's English disciple and companion. I asked
Miraben (as Miss Slade was called, since she had become a Hindu)
about Baba's conversations with Gandhi. 'I know all the details
about the connection between the two men,' she said; 'it was always
Shri Meher Baba who went to see Gandhi, never otherwise. They
first met when Gandhi travelled in the Rajputana to England to
attend the Round Table Conference. Shri Meher Baba sent round
a word, asking whether Gandhi would receive him. Gandhi, of
course, consented. They had a talk, and after that Shri Meher Baba

110

PORTRAIT OF A "PERFECT MASTER"

visited Gandhi again in London. But you may state quite emphatic-
ally that Gandhi never asked Meher Baba for help or for spiritual
or other advice. He liked Meher Baba, and he talked to him, as he
talks to everyone who wants to see him — that was all.'

For a certain time I wondered whether I should not give up all
further study of Shri Meher Baba, and limit myself to classifying
him as one of the many 'saints' who appear every now and then in
the East, and who suffer from nothing so much as from self-delusion.
Eventually, however, I decided that it would be premature to discard
a man only because certain aspects of his teaching or his personality
were not quite convincing. Every teacher has his own method, and
what appears to us to be trickery or self-delusion may be, for all we
know, part of a very wise system. I was therefore anxious to find
out more about Baba's methods with regard to his followers, and,
if possible, I wanted to hear about it from one of his most ex-
perienced and most intelligent pupils.

Another reason that made me go on studying Baba was that
there had been several sound statements in his first letter to me. 'No
general rule or process', Baba wrote in that letter, 'can be laid down
for the attainment of the ultimate reality. . . . Every individual has
got to work out his own salvation. . . . The panaceas the world knows
of, the so-called religions for the guidance of humanity, do not go
a long way towards solving the problem. As time goes on the founder
is thrown into the background of time and obscurity, religion loses
its glamour, and there takes place a mental revolt against the old
order of things and a demand is created for something more sensibly

substantial and practical I don't believe in external renunciation;

for the West particularly it is impracticable and inadvisable. Re-
nunciation should be mental. One should live in the world, perform
all legitimate duties and yet feel mentally detached from everything;
one should be in the world, but not of the world.'

I continued questioning people about Baba, wrote letters to some
of his pupils, and gathered any material I could lay hands on. But
no source was so enlightening as the one I came across unexpectedly
in the person of a very beautiful \tfoman in New York. She possessed
all the qualifications that I had been anxious to meet with in one of
Baba's disciples and that I had almost given up hope of ever finding.

Ill

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

She had given up her former life in order to serve him; she had a
thorough knowledge of Baba's methods; she took part in his daily
life, every detail of which she knew as she knew her own, and above
all, she was intelligent.

As a young girl she had married a distinguished German author;
at an early age she had become a famous actress, and later a screen
actress for a few years; she had then married a prince, and had left
him in order to follow Baba. She had been celebrated for her beauty,
and she still possessed one of the most striking appearances I had
ever encountered. She had an infectious zest for life, but she also
revealed a certain spiritual quality which helped to explain why she
should have achieved her greatest stage success in a drama in which
she had to play the Madonna. Her devotion to Baba suggested that
as she was no longer able to play the Madonna she found happiness
in playing in real life the part of Mary of Bethany, sitting at the feet
of the Master.

When I met her in New York the passion of the great actress had
not left her. It might have been the centre of a stage with thousands
of spectators watching her and not an apartment off Fifth Avenue
in which she received me. Even her eyes and her hands were vocal.
A disciplined rhythm controlled the movements of her body; her
black silk dress clung tight to her figure, and to relieve the sombre-
ness of her dress there were ropes of pearls round her neck. Her head
was enveloped in a white turban of a delicate silken fabric. I had
been told that she always wore that turban since she had become a
disciple of Baba. Heavy odour of incense pervaded the rooms; the
lighting was dim, and I noticed pictures of mediaeval saints and
other works of art which, though originally conceived as documents
of spiritual devotion, had become part of a modern luxurious
existence.

My hostess was Italian by birth, but her English was perfect, and
she always succeeded in using the right and not merely the obvious
word. When she quoted German she betrayed no trace of a foreign
accent; her French was equally good. Her intellectual perspicacity
was able to balance her passionate convictions, and technique had
taught her that a hidden flame is more effective than an open one.
Carpets and rugs softened the ardent flow of her words. We drank
tea from cups made of glass, and the whole room disclosed that
peculiarly opulent taste that one finds so often in apartments near
Fifth Avenue.

112

PORTRAIT OF A "PERFECT MASTER"

'How did you meet Shri Meher Baba?' I asked her.

'I doubt whether that experience can be expressed in words,' she
replied, and opened her hands in a helpless gesture; 'I had heard
about him, but I remained sceptical. I had followed teacher after
teacher. And yet none of the teachers I met could ever reassure me.
Eventually I consented to go with a friend to the place where Baba
stayed in New York. I entered the room in which he was sitting, sur-
rounded by followers and disciples. That very moment an experience
began, full of wonder and beauty. Suddenly I had to run through the
room, and I found myself on the floor at his feet, weeping, weeping,
weeping. Oh, how I was weeping! But I also began to laugh, and the
streams running down my cheeks and the outbursts of laughter were
one. I was resting my head on Baba's hand, and my whole body was
shaken with the terrific sobs of liberation. Eventually I quietened
down. Baba then took my face between his hands and looked for a
long time first into one of my eyes, then into the other, and then
back into the first eye. And then he spoke to me or rather made signs
on his spelling board.'

'What were his first words to you?' I interrupted.

My hostess raised her head, fixed me with her eyes as though
testing whether I would comprehend the whole weight of her words,
and said slowly: 'His first words were: "I am man and woman and
child. I am sexless." He then paused for a while, brought his face
nearer to mine, and said: "Have no fear." An incredible joy went
through me. I went into the next room and lay down on a sofa,
weeping still with joy. Suddenly the door opened and Shri Meher
Baba came in. I knew by now that my whole life had no meaning
if it was not dedicated to the Perfect Master, and so I said to him
"Baba, please take me with you." But his only answer was: "It is
yet too soon." I could have died with grief when he said these
words.' The beautiful woman spread dramatically the fingers of one
hand over her heart as though indicating that her heart had almost
stopped when she had heard Baba's refusal.

*I had to try three times before he finally accepted me,' she then
continued; 'I followed him 'to Europe, but he sent me back to
America, whence I had come. You see, it was not a fit of hasty en-
thusiasm that made me renounce my whole previous existence,
divorce my husband whom I loved and who loved me, and sacrifice
my whole life and everything I possess to the Perfect Master. But I
know that I was right. To-day I live to serve a higher purpose instead
H 113

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

of living to satisfy my own little ego, my own little envies and greeds.
To-day I live in conformity with a higher plan and for higher good.'

I wondered what the fruits of the higher plan and the higher good
were, but I only asked: 'How do you know?'

'How can I doubt it?' came the quick answer. 'Since Baba is the
Perfect Master he knows everything that is good; he directs every-
thing in the universe. If I submit to his will I can only do what I, as
a spiritual being, am meant to do, and not what my selfish little self
always tempts me to do.*

' But does this not imply your complete submission to somebody
else's will?'

'Not at all — because Baba, who knows my spiritual path, makes
me only do things that come from within my nature. He does not
force his will upon me, but induces me to act according to the
demands of my personality.' My hostess stopped and remained silent
as though indicating that there was nothing to doubt and that all
the facts mentioned by her were beyond dispute.

'How does Baba instruct his other pupils, and how does he act
when, in your words, he "directs the universe"?' I asked after a
while.

'He acts upon physical things as they actually are. He directs
maya.'

' What do you mean by mayal Maya as the physical world, which
the East believes to be nothing but an illusion?'

'Exactly, maya in its orthodox sense. Baba employs those illusions
to destroy other illusions of our worldly life.'

'Can you illustrate this?'

* Of course I can. Let's assume that a friend of Baba's is in danger
of being drowned in a lake. Baba, though hundreds of miles away,
knows of the imminent danger. He will ask his pupils to bring a
basin of water; he will put his hands into it, and by doing it he will
influence the water of the lake, thus producing there certain condi-
tions that will save his friend. He always employs equal elements for
his actions.'

'And you really believe all that?' I interrupted.

'Of course I do', she answered with such determination that I no
longer felt like opposing her with t my intellectual criticism.

My hostess was, in a way, nothing but Baba's mouthpiece, almost
more explicit than Baba himself. I could not have wished for a more
perfect source of information, and it was not for me to decide

114

PORTRAIT OF A "PERFECT MASTER"

whether she was suffering from self-delusion or to what extent the
admiration of such a fascinating woman had turned Baba's oriental
head. Though some of the facts I was presented with were fantastic,
many of the details were too revealing not to be recorded.

'Please tell me,' I asked, 'how does Baba spend his days?' In
the opinion of my hostess Baba was what she called a Perfect Master,
and had therefore a place at the very top of some mysterious
hierarchy. It was interesting to know how such an exalted being
spends his days.

'He gets up very early,* was the answer, 'hours before the rest of
the household. He takes a very hot bath, and his hair is attended to
with the greatest care. He is, as you must have noticed, extremely
tidy in his appearance, and no-one can imagine the amount of time
spent over the washing, combing and brushing of his beautiful hair.
He then goes from room to room, stops for a while in front of every
bed, looks at the sleeping person, and, no doubt, directs in his own
way the life of the disciple for the rest of the day. Many activities
follow: newspapers, a huge correspondence, interviews.'

'Does he read much?'

'He never reads books, but he knows everything.'

'But he reads newspapers, doesn't he?*

'Yes, he reads them, or rather they serve him as a medium for
directing the daily destinies of the world.'

'Destinies of the world?' I whispered.

'Yes, you see, Baba does not read a paper. He just goes over the
headlines. But while doing this he places his hands and fingers on the
printed lines' — she illustrated Baba's movements with her own ex-
pressive hands — 'and through such a contact with the print he affects
the results of events described in the article.'

'He does that?'

'Of course he does', she answered, and went on demonstrating
the way in which a 'perfect master' directs the events of our world.
'Perfect Masters work in many different ways,' she went on; 'and
Baba uses many things in life as transmitting stations for directing
events. He also uses us, his disciples, for his work. He spiritualizes
the world by creating certain spiritual centres in various parts of the
world: they serve as transmitting stations for Baba's spiritual radi-
ation. Generally he has groups of twelve in every one of these centres.'

I now remember that Baba himself had once made a statement
about the external organization of his work. Mr. Brunton reports

115

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

this statement in his book: ' Others will continue my work. My circle
of twelve selected disciples, of whom one will become a Master in
the appointed time. They have all been with me in past births, and
I am bound to help them. There will be also an outer circle with forty-
four members. They will be men and women of a lower spiritual
grade; their duty will be to assist the twelve chief disciples, after the
latter have attained perfection.'

'What other methods does Baba employ?' I asked.

'He works in many different ways, for example in the cinema. We
go very often to a cinema, at times even twice or three times a day.
Of course the actual film does not interest Baba. But when the
audience is so absorbed by the film that it has given up its inner
resistance, he can work upon it in his own way.'

' Is he fond of music?'

'Indeed he is. And of the theatre too. We often have to play for
him special plays written and produced by ourselves. And we have
to make music for him. Sometimes we have only a gramophone, but
he does not mind it, as long as it is folk music: Spanish, Eastern,
Negro or Russian music. He has little use for what he calls classical
music.'

I felt I knew enough about the life of a 'perfect master'. I had
come to the end of my investigations. There was only one other
point on which I wished to be enlightened. 'Do you know Baba's
attitude', I asked, 'towards other teachers, towards men like Krish-
namurti, Steiner, Ouspensky or Keyserling?'

' Oh, he does not mind them. He knows them all, he knows their
exact position in the spiritual world and the whole of their teaching
without bothering to study it. I remember his actually making a
statement with regard to Krishnamurti. He said that Krishnamurti
possessed great possibilities within himself and that he is on the right
path; but he won't fulfil himself or become truly great as long as he
does not come to visit Baba. You see,' she concluded in an almost
apologetic tone, 'everyone, even a person like Krishnamurti, needs
the personal contact with a Supreme Master. Otherwise he cannot
fulfil himself.'

VII

When I got home I opened once again the book in which Mr.
Brunton recorded his experiences with Baba. He had spent a whole
month in Baba's Indian ashram; he had seen Baba daily, had mixed

116

PORTRAIT OF A "PERFECT MASTER"

constantly with his disciples and had become saturated in the atmos-
phere of Baba's life. And this is what he has to say at the end of his
investigations: *I discovered that he is really an irresolute man, in-
fluenced by others and by circumstances. His small pointed chin is
eloquent on this point ' Mr. Brunton turns then to Baba's follow-
ers: 'His followers will never admit that Meher Baba can commit
blunders. Always they naively assume that mysterious esoteric pur-
pose lies behind everything he says or does. They are content to
follow blindly, as indeed they must, for reason soon rebels at what
they have to swallow.' Mr. Brunton then proceeds to express his
hypothesis of the reasons for Baba's strange personality: 'My own
theory', he says, 'is that the old woman faqueer,1 Hazrat Babajan,
did really create an upheaval in Meher Baba's character that upset

his equilibrium The kiss which she gave him was nothing in itself,

but became important as the symbolic conveyance of her psychic
inner grace. ... He was quite clearly unprepared for it. He had gone
through no training and no discipline to fit himself for what might be
tantamount to a yogic initiation. ... I believe that the youthful
Meher became quite unbalanced as a result of this unexpected ex-
perience. This was obvious enough when he fell into a condition of

semi-idiocy and behaved like a human robot 1 believe that Meher

Baba had not yet recovered from the first intoxication of his exalted
mood. . . .' Mr. Brunton ends with a shrewd analysis of Baba's
character: 'He shows, on the one hand, all the qualities of a mystic —
love, gentleness, religious intuition, and so on, but on the other hand
he shows signs of the mental disease of paranoia. ... He fails to
illustrate in himself the high message which he proposes to convey —
to others. I realize that I need not deny that many high and sublime
sayings have been communicated through the lithe fingers of Meher
Baba. . . . Nevertheless, one is compelled to condemn the theatrical
methods which he has used. No great religious teacher worthy of the
name has ever used them. . . .'

VIII

Though I have not quite succeeded in perceiving the significance of
Shri Meher Baba, some people believe in his mission and the power
of his saintliness. This book would be incomplete without the portrait
of a man who believes himself to be a 'perfect master', and who
shows how easy it is to impose an imaginary picture upon others. My
1 Mr. Brunton's form of the word, more commonly spelt *fakirf.

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

personal contact with Baba may be considered of little importance;
yet as an example of the many queer ways and means by which spirit-
ual thirst tries to find satisfaction, Baba himself makes it imperative
that he be included in an account which deals with more than one
aspect of modern spiritual pursuits. In a world in which there is a
Steiner there must also be room for a Shri Meher Baba — for the
world of spiritual research contains as many kinds and degrees
as any other world.

118

CHAPTER HI
MIRACLE AT THE ALBERT HALL

Principal George Jeffreys

Every year early in the spring the same large poster appears in the
streets of London. It portrays the head of a youngish man with
curly hair; and it invites you to the Albert Hall on Easter Monday
to attend three separate meetings: a healing service in the morning,
baptism in the afternoon, and holy communion in the evening. The
organizers are the Elim Foursquare Revivalists.

I often used to pass these huge posters, and they vaguely suggested
to me Negro revivalist services, as I had seen them in Harlem in New
York: services full of ecstasy, the remembrance of which always
makes me feel uncomfortable. They also suggested Sunday, huge
crowds and a popular entertainment. But a religious movement
powerful enough for its supporters to hire the Albert Hall year after
year eventually excited my curiosity. Most of the spiritual researches
with which I had hitherto come into direct contact had rested upon
an intellectual basis. They had appealed more particularly to the
educated classes, from whom it was reasonable to expect a certain
amount of discrimination. The posters in the streets, on the other
hand, advertised a movement that seemed organized for people with
very little critical faculty. My knowledge of revivalist movements
was rather limited, and in 1934 I decided to attend the meetings at
the Albert Hall.

I went to buy my ticket a week beforehand. I was anxious to be
close enough to the waters of the baptismal tank to hear the splash,
and close enough to see clearly the miracles of healing. The obliging
young man at the box office informed me that the seats in the stalls
were free, and that I could secure any of them by arriving early enough
on Easter Monday, or preferably on Sunday night. The seats in the
tiers encircling the stalls were sold out with the exception of one or
two in the back rows. Even so, I was only half disappointed. I had
already been wondering whether the huge posters were just a stunt,
and whether I should find myself on Easter Monday in an empty

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

hall. I remembered vividly a meeting at the Albert Hall, advertised
some years before with equal publicity. The organizer of the meeting
called himself, as far as I remember, the Negro Emperor, and his
London meeting was intended to prepare the way for a revolution
among the Negroes all over the world. Unfortunately London pro-
duced only some two-score Negroes who looked as though they had
had no success in Shaftesbury Avenue, and had been lured to the
Albert Hall in the hope of meeting some manager who wanted 'local
colour' for his next show. There were also about a hundred of those
middle-aged, nondescript women who are always ready to pay the
price of a cinema ticket for the promise of spiritual salvation; and a
handful of younger men and women whose clothes and behaviour
betrayed their Chelsea origin. The emptiness of the vast hall had
contrasted painfully with the vigour of the black speaker. When the
young man at the box office assured me once more that no better
seats were available, the uncomfortable memory of the sweating
black Emperor gave way to a pleasant feeling of anticipation.

The meeting was to begin at 10.30, and I arrived at the Albert Hall
soon after 10, on a brilliant Easter Monday morning, to find a jumble
of taxis, bath-chairs and even ambulances in the street outside. In
the crowd there were people on crutches, men and women with de-
formed limbs or with bandaged heads or eyes, mothers with sick
children in their arms.

The long circular passages inside the building were full. Many of
the congregation carried little suitcases or parcels. Most people wore
their Sunday clothes, and many had arrived with their entire family.
They seemed well provided with sandwiches, chocolate and oranges.
The crowd in the passages was getting denser, yet there was none of
the nervous intolerance so often manifested by continental crowds
on such occasions. The prevailing spirit was festive and good-
natured, and the crowds took the heat and the pushing laughingly
as a part of their holiday pleasure.

The hall was already more than half full, and just as I was trying
to find my seat, the organ began #and the four or five thousand
people broke into a hymn. The tune was not at all what you
would have expected at a religious service, and as for the words,
they ran:

120

PRINCIPAL JEFFREYS

MIRACLE AT THE ALBERT HALL

* There never was a sweeter melody,
Ifs a melody of love.
In my heart there rings a melody.
There rings a melody. . . .'

The hall was filling quickly, and long before 10.30 there was not a
seat left. Middle-aged women predominated. The stalls and the rows
round the platform were filled with young Foursquare Gospellers.
The boys in dark suits and the girls in white dresses wore round their
shoulders a striped sash of silk, bearing the words 'Elim Crusader'.
The audience consisted mainly of working-class people. Many of
them had come from Wales, from Yorkshire, from the Midlands, and
much less Cockney was heard than is usual on popular occasions
at the Albert Hall. Food, and bottles containing tea or coffee, were
stowed under the seats.

Lilies, daffodils and red azaleas formed a decorative frame in front
of the platform and the organ. 1 wondered idly whether the flowers
had been chosen haphazard or with a psychological purpose. The
choice of white lilies was alone obvious. The yellow daffodils may
have been chosen for reasons which would give proof of the subtle
knowledge of human nature on the part of the organizers. They
created not only a feeling of spring time but suggested, too, the little
gardens adjoining so many provincial and suburban houses which
at this moment were full of them. The masses of yellow flowers must
have created a familiar atmosphere for many in this audience, bring-
ing a feeling of intimacy even into the vast Albert Hall. The vivid red
azaleas might have been chosen to create a festive atmosphere, and
to stir the emotions. It is more than likely, however, that the flowers
had been chosen simply because they were pretty and because they
happened to be in season.

Men only were sitting on the platform. Some wore clerical collars,
and all of them were dressed in dark suits. The hymns were now con-
ducted by a man standing in the front row on the platform. Nearly
all the ten thousand people joined in and sang:

' There'll be music at the fountain —
Will you, will you meet me there?
Yes, I'll meet you at the fountain,
At the fountain, bright and fair. . .'

When the leader at the microphone began to sing, with a smiling face,

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

' Faithful ril be to-day,
Glad day, glad day I9

his last few words, carried across by the loudspeakers, were drowned
by the joyous response from ten thousand throats,

' And I will freely tell
Why I should love Him so well,
For He is my all to-day.9

I could not foresee that, though the literary quality of the hymns
was not always of the highest order, 'He' would indeed be theirs all
through this Easter Monday.

Ill

The man whom ten thousand people from all over the British Isles
had come to see and to listen to had mounted the platform quite un-
observed. Though my eyes had rarely left the platform I did not see
the entry of George Jeffreys, the founder and leader of the Elim
Evangelists, and I only discovered later that he had been sitting for
some time among his friends in the front row. He was wearing a
dark suit as were all the other men around him, and there was no mark
to distinguish him from the others. I saw through my opera glasses
a strong face with rather a soft mouth, dark curly hair and a fine
presence in which there was nothing calculated to play upon the
emotions. He possessed none of the characteristics that I had ex-
pected to find in the leader of a revivalist movement. Had I not seen
Mrs. Aimee McPherson from Los Angeles preaching in this very
hall, and equipped with all the tricks of an ingenious stage technique?
Smiles, golden curls, searchlights and trumpets crowded my recol-
lections while I watched the group on the platform.

The moment Jeffreys began to speak the impression of impersona-
lity disappeared. He came up to the microphone to say a prayer, and
at the sound of his very first words there came into my mind the same
thought that I had had some time earlier when I met Kerenski for
the first time. The voice of Jeffreys was strong, but not so aggressive
as Kerenski's; it was a baritone, an4 full of the melody which we are
accustomed to find in a Welsh voice. Kerenski's voice had the dra-
matic quality of the typically Russian bass, but it lacked the humanity
of the voice at the microphone. I have been told by people who

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heard Kerenski when he harangued the masses during the Russian
revolution that his main asset was the deep ringing sound of his
voice. Had his vocal cords been unable to produce this far-reaching
sound, the history of Russia might have taken a different course. I
did not doubt that the strong and sincere tone of the voice of Jeffreys
was responsible for much of the veneration in which his followers
held him. There was in it the reassuring note of fatherly advice and
the attraction which we are told has its roots in the subconscious re-
actions of sex. A George Jeffreys with a high-pitched tenor might
never have become known.

After praying, Jeffreys addressed the audience for the first time.
He held a sheet of paper in his hands and said: * We have just received
an answer to our telegram to H.M. the King. I will read it: "George
Jeffreys, Albert Hall, Kensington. The King sincerely thanks you
for your loyal message on the occasion of the ninth annual meeting
of the Elim Foursquare Gospellers. Private Secretary." ' The audience
applauded.

When Jeffreys came up to the microphone to say another prayer I
began to understand why ten thousand people had come to listen to
him. He was not a high priest but simply one of the people. Between
them and their God there stood no altar of mystery; there was no
priest in sacramental vestments; there was no complicated ceremony.
They communicated with God without the help of symbols that had
no meaning for many. The man who spoke to God in their name did
not address Him in Latin or in the archaic words of a centuries-old
Church. God approached in that way did not seem very distant.
Jeffreys displayed none of the unctuousness of the average preacher.
His prayers were almost colloquial.

In the intervals of praying the platform assumed the character
of a committee room. Telegrams arrived, were read and others
dispatched, letters were opened, messengers sent out. Yet the
whole procedure suggested rather a big family gathering than an
office.

The hall became silent when Jeffreys stepped forward once again
to deliver his sermon or — in the words of his Church — his message.
The contents of his message were not new. At times their crude
fundamentalism was irritating^ So was the somewhat childish em-
phasis on the necessity of real baptism instead of 'the pagan Catholic
sprinkling of children', as Jeffreys called it. But I was struck by the
way in which he spoke. There was a quality in his delivery which I

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can only describe as biblical. The Bible was obviously the source
from which he had derived his knowledge and his powers as a
speaker. But the main feature of his style was not merely the right
adaptation of biblical knowledge: there was in his words a natural
persuasiveness which can be derived only from full identification
with the Bible. The whole philosophy of Jeffreys was neither emotion-
al nor intellectual — it was just biblical. The man who has identified
himself with the spirit of the Gospels speaks as though from another
level. His reasoning does not come from his intellect but from a
'higher order of reality', and thus he becomes in a way above argu-
ment. It seemed that the Scriptures had become the very life-blood
of George Jeffreys.

After his message Jeffreys called people who wished to be baptized.
In moments when his emotions were roused he would raise his hands,
as though to invoke his listeners. Though the gestures of his hands
were not particularly marked, they seemed almost to pull people
down from their distant seats high under the roof of the hall. Many
responded to his ringing voice and to the pleading of his hands. At
first one or two voices sounded in the general silence, and in the vast
auditorium they were like the voices of children. But they 'broke
the ice'. More and more people — five, ten, twenty, fifty — cried out
that they wanted to be baptized. Jeffreys listened attentively to each
one of them, and to each he exclaimed, 'God bless you'. The bap-
tism was to take place in the afternoon.

In the meantime the stalls were cleared in preparation for the
healing service. The sick people descended into the stalls from all
parts of the hall. They came down slowly one by one, many with the
aid of relatives or nurses, others unassisted. Those of them who could
kneel, knelt down on the floor; others remained in their seats, and a
few in their bath-chairs.

The climax of the morning had arrived. I was feeling excited: I
had never seen any miraculous healing before. In none of the spiritual
movements which I had investigated had this form of religious activ-
ity been practised. I had the scepticism we all have when confronted
with something we have never experienced. And yet I had read these
words of Martin Luther only a few days before: 'How often has it
happened, and still does, that devils have been driven out in the name

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of Christ; also, by calling on His name and prayer, that the sick
have been healed.'

Jeffreys came down from the platform towards the sick, of whom
there must have been some four or five hundred. He was followed by
one of his helpers bearing a little receptacle containing oil, and by a
few women who were there to assist the sick. Jeffreys approached
them one after another, anointed their foreheads or merely put his
hands on their heads, leant over them and uttered a few words.
Though their eyes were shut they did not exhibit any signs of exalta-
tion, and many of them had a faint smile on their lips. Others were
sitting or kneeling, giving themselves up to the moment with such
devotion that they had forgotten even to pray. Their inanimate arms
hung down; their hands rested motionless in their laps. Some of
them had raised their heads and had opened their hands as though
waiting for God's healing power to flow into them. Many remained
in the same position after Jeffreys had laid hands on them, but some
began to sway to and fro for a while, and had to be helped by the
attendant women. A few fell down on the floor as if in a dead faint,
sometimes at the very moment Jeffreys touched them — sometimes
after he had left them.

While the organ played softly, the vast audience looked down on
the stalls. There was none of the morbid curiosity that crowds general
manifest when confronted with something outside their usual ex-
perience. They were sitting quietly, many of them with tears running
down their cheeks; some prayed to themselves with numb lips, others
prayed aloud with clasped hands. The atmosphere of faith that per-
vaded the hall was beginning to overpower one's critical faculty.
After all, Jeffreys would not be the first to give proofs of bodily
healing through faith and grace. When I got home I found a passage
in John Wesley in which he records a case of his own illness:
"I called on Jesus aloud to increase my faith. . . . While I was
speaking my pain vanished away, my fever left me, and my bodily
strength returned, and for many weeks I felt neither weariness nor
pain.'

The playing of the organ had become so soft that the steps of
Jeffreys and his helpers walking from row to row could be heard
quite distinctly. Only when someone fell to the floor was there any
commotion.

In one of the farthest rows of the stalls there was a woman in a
bathchair, with a nurse at her side. I had already noticed the woman

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once or twice: her whole appearance suggested a class which was
rather the exception here. All through the morning she had been
sitting motionless in her bathchair, but now I noticed some excite-
ment around her. Supported by her nurse she was half standing in
her chair; her face bright red and covered with beads of sweat. She
was raising her arms in slow, backward movements, performed with
great difficulty, which suggested some odd gymnastic exercise. She
exclaimed time after time, loud enough to be heard all round: 'I can
move them now, I can move them*. She went on moving her arms in
slow circles; and in her face there was such an expression of terrifying
excitement that I had to force myself to go on watching it. This ex-
pression suggested neither hysteria nor joy, but rather an awfully
intense curiosity and surprise.

My head was beginning to ache. It must have been the heat and
the novelty of the experience. I left the Albert Hall and went home
for lunch.

When I came back in the afternoon I found the scene within the
building the same as before except that in front of the platform there
was a large water tank of green canvas. George Jeffreys was sitting
on the platform in a black gown, the organ was playing and hymn
after hymn was sung. Jeffreys got up and asked people to testify to
their healings in the years gone by, and voice after voice cried back
from different corners of the hall, stating its individual case. I spoke
to several of these people afterwards. They were workmen, artisans
and small tradesmen, and it was difficult to doubt the honesty
of their testimony. As I discovered later, hundreds of the most
striking cases had been collected in book form, together with the
original reports, and photographs of the subjects. In the course
of half an hour the following healings of the last nine years were
testified to:

33 cripples,

17 people who had been blind in one or both eyes,

77 people who had suffered from tumour, growth or cancer,

40 consumptives.

Some of these could not be prevented from coming down all the
way to the platform to state their case. One middle-aged man with a

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MIRACLE AT THE ALBERT HALL

dark moustache climbed up on to the platform, anxious to give an
account of some dreadful disease he had been cured of by Jeffreys
only a year earlier. He was beaming with self-contentment, and
spared no detail of his illness, revelling in the horrors of his previous
sufferings with such obvious delight that I almost suspected he was
sorry to have been healed. At the end of the gruesome tale he cried
out, ' Hallelujah, praise the Lord', and stepped down from the plat-
form with the expression of a tenor who has just acknowledged the
applause of an enthusiastic audience after his big aria.

I saw the details of the baptismal service as clearly as I wished,
only a few months later at a meeting at the Crystal Palace. The sum-
mer meetings there had become as much yearly occasions for the
Elim Gospellers as the Easter meeting at the Albert Hall. The vast
grounds in front of the Crystal Palace were gay with their red flowers
and green lawns. This time there were over twenty thousand people.
Inside the huge glass structure there were no ecclesiastical banners,
garlands, or carpets to suggest a religious ceremony and to hide the
dreariness of the place. The huge glass shell with its exhibition stalls
and cases and its cafes looked just as it did during any other of its
shows. I arrived during the interval between two meetings, and many
people were wandering through the halls. It looked just as though
some big fair were taking place. The stall in the middle of the main
hall, reserved for the exhibits of the various branches of the Elim
Movement, was symbolic of the movement itself. It showed that
Elim revivalism satisfied other needs of its followers besides the
religious. A large part of the stall was reserved for the books by
Jeffreys and various of his pastors; next to it the weekly magazine
of the movement was on sale; large posters showed the various
branches of the Foursquare Gospel Church: one of them said 'Elim
Holiday Homes', another 'Elim Bible College', a third 'Crusader
and Cadet Movement', a fourth 'Foreign Missionary Branch'. In
one part of the stall a gramophone played hymns, and young girls
were selling gramophone records of choruses, organ solos, and
orchestral music.

The programme for the day was fuller than any programme I had
seen at any Congress. The meetings had begun at ten in the morning,
and they were going on till nine at night. There were prayer meetings,

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choir meetings, lectures, healing, baptism, holy communion. At
times there were two meetings simultaneously. The refreshment
rooms were crowded and on the grass slopes just in front of the
building many people were having their meal sitting between their
food baskets and bottles just as if they were on holiday at the sea-
side. One would have looked in vain for signs of that irrational
disposition which one generally associates with religious revivalism.
The whole meeting was extremely 'British' and in the intervals the
people clung together in groups as English crowds always do
on holiday.

The British character of the whole meeting was as evident in the
intervals as it was during the singing. I had arrived this time as the
guest of the organizers, and had received a ticket which entitled me to
a seat on the platform among the helpers of Principal Jeffreys in a
letter which ended with the words: 'With greetings, Yours sincerely
in Him.' Before making use of this privilege I preferred to stroll for
some time among the people and to attend one or two meetings
as an unprivileged member of the big audience. Singing was an out-
standing feature of all the meetings, and I do not remember having
seen a man or a woman who did not take part in it or who sang only
out of habit. Nothing seemed to make them so happy as singing.
They sang the glory of God and they no doubt believed every word
of their hymns; but they also shouted at the top of their voices,
revelling in the physical enjoyment of 'letting themselves go'. This
primitive form of self-realization is an important factor in mass
movements. An old gentleman with a withered face, snow-white hair
and a pair of old-fashioned steel-rimmed spectacles no doubt felt
entitled to express himself as loudly as he could, whether he was asked
to or not, and each time Jeffreys put, during the delivery of his mes-
sage, an obviously rhetorical question the old gentleman would shout
his reply across hundreds of listeners. 'Who died for us on the Cross?'
came the speaker's words from the platform. * Jesus Christ, our
Lord!' was the answer flung back to the platform by the white-
haired gentleman. ' What can the Lord do for us? . . .' Jeffreys con-
tinued . . . 'Save us' came an answering shout from the shrivelled
lips.

For all the obvious enthusiasm of the crowd it seemed surprising
that they could stand the strain of a full day of such concentrated
religion. Later I asked one of the pastors present about it. 'Meetings
like this", he replied, 'are the greatest impulses in the life of these

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people. They are like an electric current that charges the batteries
for months to come. When the batteries have run down a bit,
another meeting will charge them. People simply live for months in
the memory of these days. They are the greatest joys of their lives.
Would not all people be much more religious if they could only find
the proper stimulus? It is not religious feeling that they are lacking,
but impulses to make their religious motors run. 'Most of these
people', the pastor went on, 'will feed on the fare given them to-day
when they return to their dreary surroundings in some London
slum, to their work in factories, in the black towns of the Midlands.
. . . During all those months at work they will have something to
look forward to — next Easter at the Albert Hall.'

VII

The event I was awaiting with the greatest eagerness was the bap-
tismal service, and I decided to make use of my special ticket, and
to witness the baptisms from the platform. I had been promised a
meeting with George Jeffreys, and this would probably be the most
suitable meeting ground. The platform for the baptismal ceremony
was erected in the bandstand in the middle of the grounds and front-
ing the Crystal Palace. When I arrived at the bandstand a young
man with the innocent pink face of a cherub was playing hymns
on a little organ, the sounds of which were amplified by loud-
speakers all over the grounds. I was feeling self-conscious when
I mounted the steps to the bandstand, and found myself
scrutinized by two dozen men, with sunburned faces and clerical
collars. Fortunately their curiosity gave way within a few seconds
to an attitude of helpfulness, and after a few minutes I felt quite
at ease. The cherub at the organ was none other than George
Jeffreys' secretary, with whom I had been corresponding for some
months.

A small canvas water tank had been erected in the middle of the
bandstand. Jeffreys, with five or six young men dressed like himself
at his heels, arrived for the service in grey flannel trousers and a
cricket shirt. About fifteen or twenty young women in mackintoshes
were grouped just outside the bandstand. In front of it were
assembled over twenty thousand people. The first two rows were
occupied by some sixty men and women who during one of
the morning services had expressed their wish to be baptized,
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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

They looked like a local cricket team that had somehow got mixed
up with the members of a ladies' swimming club. The women
wore white rubber bathing caps, long white garments and white
shoes; the men wore grey or white flannels, cricket shirts and white
shoes.

The converts were led one by one into the tank, where Jeffreys
and his helpers, standing in the water up to their waists, awaited
them. One or two of the white figures shivered when they stepped
into the water. Among the first to enter were a number of families.
Jeffreys would put one of his hands on their backs and duck them
with his other hand. While doing this he would say loudly: 'On the
confession of thy faith I baptize thee in the name of the Father
and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.' Some of the converts
walked out of the tank briskly and smilingly, as though saying
'how jolly'. Most of them were serious; a few let themselves be led
out of the tank with their eyes shut tight and their hands folded
in prayer. A few collapsed, and had to be carried by the girls
in mackintoshes. Most of them shivered, and it was most gratify-
ing to see that the girls in mackintoshes provided them with wraps
or overcoats before leading them into the building, where they
were presumably wanned and dried.

VIII

After the baptismal service I was at last allowed to meet George
Jeffreys. 'I am afraid it was very hard to persuade the Principal to
see you,' said one of his helpers coming up to me; 'he never sees
anyone unconnected with his work. He does not even receive gentle-
men who write for the press. I don't think he will be able to give
you more than five minutes."

When I shook hands with Jeffreys I saw for myself that his friend
had not exaggerated. The man who had such power over the largest
masses seemed painfully shy. He was feeling nervous, and he
obviously hated himself for having promised to receive me. He
looked very tired. His day had been filled up till now with one healing
service and two baptismal services, besides sermons, prayers and the
constant guidance of over twenty thousand people. Another healing
service, one or two other services including holy communion were
still to come. Jeffreys looked slightly older than he had seemed from
a distance. In the corners of his mouth there was a trace of sadness

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MIRACLE AT THE ALBERT HALL

that reminded me of a similar expression in the mouths of Rudolf
Steiner and of Krishnamurti. Was it a result of the inner experiences
that precede a spiritual attainment?

I disliked interviewing Jeffreys as much as he disliked being
interviewed, and I did not know how to begin. Nor did the surround-
ings help me much. The vast and bare room was modestly called 'the
ambassadors' room', and we sat at a table long enough to accommo-
date all the foreign Ambassadors and Ministers accredited to the
Court of St. James.

After we had eventually exchanged a few preliminary remarks,
I began to feel a little less embarrassed and I asked Jeffreys:
'How did it come about that you knew the possibility of divine
healing?'

'Through personal experience. I was healed myself as a boy.
The impression was terrific.'

'Do you mean the mental or the physical impression?'

'The physical impression. It was like an electric current that
struck my head.' The words 'terrific' and 'current' and 'struck'
were said with the emphasis that had been so convincing when
Jeffreys spoke from the platform.

'Are you quite conscious of what you are doing when you lay
your hands on people's heads? Is it you who heal them or do you
consider yourself just an instrument?'

Jeffreys looked at me for a second as though surprised at the
question, and then he said: 'Of course it is the power of God that
only works through me. I claim no powers of any sort. It is the Lord
who manifests Himself through me. I am nothing but His work. I
can only say with the Master, "I can of mine own self do nothing. , . ,
I seek not mine own will, but the will of the Father which hath sent
me." '

' So you don't think your healing has anything to do with the mind
of the sick themselves?'

'The one teacher I believe in is the Lord. I believe in the Gospels
from cover to cover and in all the fundamentals of the Christian
faith. Intellectual interpretations of individual parts of the Bible are
outside me. I accept the Bible in its entirety as the word of God.
The sick must have faith, must pray, must hope that they will be
healed. But it is not the effect df mind over matter that manifests
itself in healing. It is solely and only the power of Christ over
disease.'

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*Is it true that you believe in the second coming of Christ?'
*I do with all my faith, and I see the signs of His second coming.
I see them in the last war, in the unrest of the world, in crisis coming
after crisis.'

When we shook hands to say good-bye, he was looking much
more at his ease than he did before our conversation. After he had
gone I was left in the room by myself for a few moments, and I
could not help wondering how many educated Englishmen know
anything about George Jeffreys, the man who has made thou-
sands of their fellow citizens happy and has restored their faith? I
myself knew nothing further about him than that which I had seen
with my own eyes. It was only later and through prolonged efforts
that I learned more about his life.

George Jeffreys never talked to anyone about himself; outside
his work he led the life of a recluse, and was extremely shy in his
private life. I began to make friends with people who had come
to his meetings for several years; I talked to one or two of his
pastors. Each one of them told me a little, but none of them knew
more than the most obvious events in the life of the 'Principal*
as they all called him. Eventually I asked his secretary to lunch
and begged him to talk. In young and enthusiastic people there is
no premeditation, and no distortion of fact from motives of prop-
aganda.

My guest had been with Jeffreys for the last six years; he was his
secretary, his leading musician and one of the three members of the
revivalist party which, headed by Jeffreys himself, conducted the
large revivalist campaigns. 'When you are with the Principal you
always feel the presence of God', my guest said. 'You feel it in the
Principal's modesty, his simplicity, his humility. We four all live
together, we travel together. Yet there is always that feeling of divine
presence when the Principal is with us. He has probably healed
more people than anyone alive; few people in the world get such
huge crowds for their meetings as he does; the largest halls in the
towns we are visiting are too small to accommodate all the people
who want to come and listen to him. People worship him because
they feel the divine presence in him; and yet he is as simple as though
he were no-one in particular/

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MIRACLE AT THE ALBERT HALL

*You have revivalist campaigns only in the British Isles?'

*NO — though the Principal is concentrating at present on Great
Britain. Yet there is hardly a day without letters arriving from
India, South Africa, Canada, America, and from practically every
country in Europe, asking the Principal to come. They guarantee
his expenses, and they promise a lot of money; but he only listens
to God, from whom he gets direction, where to go and what places
to visit. The Principal never accepts money as the price of his
coming. We went to Switzerland this summer because a friend of
the Principal at Bienne had been asking him for many years to
come. We spent three weeks in Switzerland. We might have been
there twice as many months. We held our meetings in the biggest
churches or halls of the chief towns, and they were not only
packed, but people stood outside for hours waiting for the Principal
to come out after the meeting was over. And often we had three
meetings a day. This happened at Bienne, at Geneva, Basle, Berne,
Zurich.'

I remember having read in continental papers of the enormous
success of the Foursquare Revivalists in Switzerland.

'In which country did Principal Jeffreys begin his move-
ment?'

*In Northern Ireland in 1915. He did not come to England till
after the war.'

The family of George Jeffreys lived at Llynvi Valley in Wales.
They were religious people, and it had always been the young boy's
great ambition to become a clergyman. He was coached for a minis-
try in the Welsh Congregational Church, but paralysis threatened
to cut short both his work and his life. Speaking of those days
Jeffreys says: 'My weak state began to manifest itself in facial
paralysis down one whole side. ... I knew that unless a miracle was
wrought in me, life was to be very short. When my mouth began
to be affected, the one thing that distressed me greatly was the
possibility of my not realizing the one call and ambition of my life —
the Christian ministry. From the earliest days of childhood there
was the consciousness borne within me that I was called to preach
the Gospel. When this affliction came it seemed as if the end of all
that was worth living for had jcome — there was no other purpose
for me in life if I could not pre'ach.' The doctors predicted that the
boy could not live more than a few years.

But he had always believed in bodily healing through faith. The

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words of the Bible, * I am the Lord that healeth thee', cast an almost
mystical spell over him. Jeffreys considers that the course of his
life was changed by a miracle, which happened one Sunday morning.
The family were kneeling in prayer in their sitting-room, and the
boy offered up a special prayer for health. He had never doubted the
truth of God's words with regard to healing, and when I asked
Jeffreys what he had prayed for, he answered: 'I reminded God
of His promise in Exodus.' Suddenly he felt the shock which
he had described to me during our first conversation. 'I can only
liken the experience', he stated on another occasion, Ho being
charged with electricity. It seemed as if my head were connected
to a most powerful electric battery. My whole body from head to
foot was quickened.' The face and body were suddenly restored to
a normal state. To-day Jeffreys shows no trace of any facial or other
ailment.

The wave of strength and joy that flowed through the boy was
followed instantly by a feeling of compassion. Great inner joys
often produce such a reaction. In Jeffreys the experience was based
on deep faith and a clear aim in life. He believed that in the act of
healing God revealed Himself to him and showed him the right
direction. The healing provided him with a 'witness within to the
faithfulness of God's word'. His aim was now to go into the world
and to preach the word of God — no longer as an ordinary preacher,
but as the teacher whose office had been described in the Gospels
by the words: 'They shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall
recover', and this passage in St. Mark became henceforth the young
man's crucial doctrine.

Once his faith had been proved and his decision made, the estab-
lishing of the most suitable external forms became merely a matter
of time. The Elim Foursquare revivalism had spiritually come into
existence on that Sunday morning at Llynvi Valley in Wales. Jeffreys
chose the name of his movement from the Bible. 'It signifies the four-
sided aspect of the Gospel of Christ . . . the cardinal truths of the
doctrine held by the movement, namely: Jesus the Saviour, Healer,
Baptizer and Coming King.' The name Elim, too, was taken from
the Bible: * And they came to Elim, where were twelve wells of water,
and threescore and ten palm trees: and they encamped there by the
waters.'

In 1915 the new movement had not extended beyond Northern
Ireland. Jeffreys did not bring it over to England till after the war.

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MIRACLE AT THE ALBERT HALL

At first it consisted merely of revivalist campaigns in different parts
of England. Each campaign brought new members. Later on as
many as ten thousand people were converted in one town during a
single campaign. The growth of the new movement can be gathered
from the fact that between 1919 and 1934 Jeffreys had opened about
two hundred churches under his own supervision in the British Isles.
He has his own theological college; he has ordained over a hundred
and fifty ministers for his own churches; and he supports thirteen
missionaries in foreign countries. The most important activity of the
movement is, however, the series of campaigns in the different
towns, where even the largest halls are always filled. Crowds, like
those I had seen at the Albert Hall and the Crystal Palace, queued
up hours beforehand in order to get into the Queen's Hall and the
Alexandra Palace in London, the City Temple in Glasgow, the
Royal Dome in Brighton, the Ulster Hall in Belfast, the Usher Hall
in Edinburgh, the Bingley Exhibition Hall and the Caird Hall in
Dundee. They are the biggest halls in the British Isles, and each
has on these occasions proved to be too small, though only a few
of the seats were free — most of them costing between one and three
shillings each.

'Has Principal Jeffreys got any money of his own?' I further asked
my guest. 'Is your movement self-supporting or has it got rich
patrons?'

*We are entirely self-supporting, and we have enough money
to run our churches and all the movements connected with Elim
revivalism. But don't imagine that we are rich. Most of our congrega-
tions belong to the poorer classes. The Principal himself hasn't got
a penny of his own. He does not even get paid for his strenuous
work. Our pastors naturally get their salaries like any other minister
in England. The Principal just gets his expenses paid; that's all.
As he has no hobbies of any kind, does not smoke or drink, does not
travel except on our campaigns, his expenses amount to very little
indeed. We three members of his revivalist party don't get any wages
either, but the Elim movement pays for our expenses. That's all. I
personally should not know what to do with money. None of us
would.'

'Does Principal Jeffreys go to the theatre, to concerts? Does he
read?'

'Not what you would call "read". He only reads books on
religious subjects. Practically only the Bible, which he studies con-

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stantly. He is not interested in the theatre, art, politics. At least I
have never heard him talk about them in the six years that I have
been with him. His spiritual mission occupies all his attention, all
his thoughts.'

'Doesn't he ever take a rest?'

* Rarely. In most years there are meetings every day. We visit
town after town. In the bigger ones we may spend a whole month
and there may be several services a day. Nevertheless none of us
seems to get tired. After all, we, his three revivalists, also work day
after day, often conducting meeting after meeting. Ten or more
hours' concentrated work are the rule rather than the exception.
We are supposed to have one day a week, Friday, to ourselves.
But often there are meetings even on a Friday. And yet people
remark how healthy we all look.' Indeed, my guest looked as
though he had just returned from a holiday. Yet actually he was
in the midst of a large campaign in the London suburbs, that
would take three weeks, and there were meetings every night. He
had to play the organ and the piano, to sing, to conduct some of
the services. I remembered that the other helpers of Jeffreys whom
I had met at the Crystal Palace had looked equally healthy. 'I
suppose it is the joy of our work', my guest went on, 'that keeps
us so well. It is a constant invigoration. Once a year we force
the Principal to take a rest. On such occasions, which last several
days, he likes going slowly through the countryside by car. He
likes nothing better than motoring in leisurely fashion through
England.'

'How is it that your music during the services is so gay? Who
writes it and who writes your hymns?'

My guest blushed. 'We use certain old hymns, but most are
written by our own pastors. Some of the music I have written myself.
Somebody has to. ... Parts of our music are taken from tunes of the
moment. We believe in letting people sing music that is in their ears
and has a nice familiar sound. We don't go in of course for any wild
jazzy stuff, but anything pleasant that happens to be in the air might
be adopted for a hymn. After all, there is no reason why God should
prefer gloomy or solemn tunes to jolly ones.'

My guest drank no wine at lunch and after the meal he did not
smoke. 'Doesn't your movement allow drinking or smoking?'

'We have no definite rules. We ourselves do not drink or smoke,
but if any members of the Elim Church want to do either they may.

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MIRACLE AT THE ALBERT HALL

The Principal, though such a strict follower of the Bible, does not
believe in compulsion. You may have noticed how easygoing he is
even during the services. We believe that the Lord can be present
among us no matter what rules we have and how we dress up. Like
the ministers in the old Scottish Church, our pastors wear no special
vestments at church, and only rarely a clerical collar. The Principal
himself is hardly conscious of such things as clothes and outward
ceremonies. The word of the Lord is the one thing he is conscious of.
Constantly. You have probably noticed that he came for the baptis-
mal service in a black gown. He is supposed to wear it in the water
all through the service. But almost every time the same thing happens.
He suddenly remembers that the gown hinders him in the water,
and so he discards it, and walks into the tank in grey flannels and
shirt. Some people would probably say that an important service
should be treated with greater reverence. But for the Principal
the thing that matters is the power of the baptism and of Christ's
words.'

I remembered this informality in Jeffreys and thought how
strongly it contrasted with his seriousness of speech which had proved
particularly striking at the Crystal Palace after my interview with
him. Later in the afternoon I had gone to attend the healing service.
Though I had seen one at the Albert Hall, I wanted to watch Jeffreys
more closely this time, to see whether he used a special formula
when he laid hands on the sick. By the movements of his hands it
might be possible to discern whether it was conscious healing or
whether he really was just an 'instrument'.

The healing service took place in a hall which must have held
some two or three thousand people. Jeffreys was walking from row
to row of several hundred people who were sitting or kneeling in the
front of the hall, waiting for his approach. Though he was as con-
centrated as ever, he would often laugh aloud when exclaiming
'Hallelujah'. This time I was standing quite close to the sufferers,
and I could see Jeffreys very clearly when he put his hands on
their heads. I doubted no longer that he had no deeper knowledge
of his own performance, and that he was merely a 'medium'. I could
hear every word he said, and he never repeated the same words
twice running, though some of them occurred with greater frequency

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

than others. His most frequent invocations were: 'Pray to the Lord'
or just 'Glory' or 'In the name of the Lord'. But he also spoke to
the sick when stooping down to them: 'You are shut in with God\ or
Concentrate on Jesus Christ', or 'The power of God is within us',
or 'The power of God is here to heal'.

People collapsed more often than at the Albert Hall, the moment
the hand of the healer had touched their head. I spoke to several of
them, and this is what one of them told me: 'The moment the Prin-
cipal had approached me and had laid hands upon me, I was struck
by such a powerful shock that though I was perfectly conscious I
could not help falling down as if dead.' I had watched them from
quite close and with the greatest attention, and I had noticed
that they had indeed fallen, like felled trees, as though their
bodies had lost all strength. They remained stiff and motionless
on the floor for many minutes. I might have known even with-
out asking that it could not have been a fit of faintness. I had
observed for myself that when they were able to get up, they
did not seem at all giddy; there was none of that slow return
to reality, accompanied by the usual question, 'Where am I?' The
moment the people here had opened their eyes, they got up
with a smile or even a grin on their faces; they seemed per-
fectly conscious of their surroundings. In most cases they ex-
claimed 'Hallelujah' or 'Glory'. And yet two or three men had
remained on the floor in the stiff attitude of a corpse for over
ten minutes.

One could not judge how real or how lasting the effect of the
healings was. Yet for most of the people concerned these moments
were the highest of their lives. It was all very well to criticize the
primitiveness of this religion — its crudeness, its lack of discrimina-
tion— and to feel superior to people who believed in miracles; but
in reality it mattered little whether the basis of the healings was the
power of the healer, the faith or even the hysteria of the followers.
We are — as yet — unable to offer clear rational explanations for
miraculous healings — a purely intellectual criticism cannot therefore
do them justice. The words of St. John came to my mind: 'And a
great multitude followed him, because they saw his miracles which
he did on them that were diseased.' The decisive factor, in an estima-
tion of Jeffreys, seemed to me the support of thousands of people
who had found proofs of their faith through him, and that those
who had knelt down on the floor with frightened and anxious

138

MIRACLE AT THE ALBERT HALL

faces, full of expectation, had got up and walked out with faces that
radiated joy.

When the healing ceremony was over George Jeffreys stepped
into the middle of the hall and began to sing a hymn. The congrega-
tion was sitting and standing about him, and now he was literally a
member of it. He was singing very quietly and very slowly and the
assembled people took up the song with equal softness. After each
verse Jeffreys stopped to say a few words, addressed directly to the
people around him: 'Do you all feel now the presence of our Lord?
Do you feel how He is now with us, here in this very hall?' His voice
sounded even more earnest than before. He seemed deeply conscious
of what he was saying. He went on with the hymn and stopped again
after the next verse. Now he spoke to the people in the remoter corners
of the hall: 'Don't try to come more forward. The Lord is in your
corner of the hall as much as in mine. He is with us everywhere. He
is in each one of us. Shut your eyes. Concentrate on the Lord. Open
yourself so that He may enter into you.' He went on singing and
the people sang with him. The man at the piano on the platform
forgot to play: he was sitting on his stool with his eyes shut,
quietly singing the hymn. Jeffreys stopped again: 'Do you feel how
wonderful the presence of the Lord is? Do you now feel the joy,
O the happiness of having the Lord with us? O Jesus Christ our
Lord, we thank Thee for Thy presence and for Thy help, and we
rejoice in it with all our hearts. In the name of Jesus Christ our
Lord.'

The people who an hour or two ago had been scrambling to get
tea, who had been making jokes during their picnic, were standing
with closed eyes, with faces that were happy but tense.

It seemed as though the presence of God really filled the hall.
And there was nothing miraculous in it. The people who were
assembled round their leader had always known that God is every-
where and in everyone; but it had been a problem for them how
to find Him. It had been difficult for them to hear His voice, to
become conscious of Him. What Jeffreys did was to compress their
consciousness of God, to vitalize it, to force it into a concentration
that was more powerful than any state they were able to achieve
by themselves. Jeffreys forced their God to emerge from the shadows
of their longings, and to manifest Himself in their conscious feelings.
He made Him their living God. And after he had revealed Him to
them the two or three thousand people had probably felt Him in

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the glowing stream of joy that ran through them, and that made
them much more alive, much richer. The faces of these people
suggested that they were living at this moment with God and
in God. The one great miracle of all religions seemed to have
happened: God had descended into man and had become a part
of his consciousness.

140

CHAPTER IV

THE MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE
Dr. Frank Buchman

We were supposed to meet at luncheon. I was very much looking
forward to a conversation with the man who had succeeded
in winning over so many English people to an American revivalism
and who seemed to wipe out racial, religious and social differences
wherever he went.

Dr. Buchman was sitting not far from our table, lunching with
two elderly ladies. He was short, stoutish and benevolent-looking,
with a smile on his thin but firm lips and with a pair of extremely
bright, keen eyes that were always watching something from behind
gold-rimmed spectacles. The only thing he did not suggest was
religion. He might have been a bank manager or a successful
American impresario. This discrepancy between his looks and his
vocation only increased my desire to meet him.

No hosts could have been more charming or more obliging than
the six or seven leading Buchmanites who put me at my ease imme-
diately and treated me as an old acquaintance. There were a Scots-
man, a South African, an Englishman and three Americans among
them; one of them was an engineer, one a university lecturer and
one a clergyman. They were a cheerful lot and rather more affec-
tionate with one another than is usual among British or American
men. They called one another by their Christian names, and referred
to Dr. Buchman as Frank. There was something boyish and rather en-
gaging about them, and it was only towards the end of luncheon, when
I began to put inquisitive questions, that they became more reserved.
But no-one cares to be cross-examined by a stranger, and intellectual
conversation is, I suppose, rather out of place at luncheon.

I had attended a meeting of the Buchmanites the evening before,
and another that very morning. I had seen hundreds of enthusiastic
people fill the huge reception hafl of the Hotel Metropole in London
and enjoy wholeheartedly their latest religious experience, so I was
no longer quite ignorant of what the new movement stood for.

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

Before we finished luncheon one member of our party crossed
over to Dr. Buchman's table and conversed with him for a minute
or two. I imagined that Dr. Buchman was to join us after lunch,
but he passed our table and, giving me first a somewhat inquisitive
look and then a kind smile, walked on. Afterwards I saw him in
the lounge having coffee with a lady whom I recognized as the wife
of a well-known peer.

I do not remember what excuse was given to me, but unfor-
tunately I did not meet Dr. Buchman, and I was promised my talk
another time.

Dr. Frank Buchman claims to be the descendant of a certain
Bibliander who was the successor of Zwingli in the chair of Theology
at Zurich. He was born in 1878 at Pennsburg, Pennsylvania, took
his degree at Muhlenberg College, and became Lutheran minister
at a church in Philadelphia. He started later a settlement house for
poor boys, but had to leave it after some differences with the trustees.
During a visit to England in 1908 he had a 'vision of the Cross',
which determined the whole of his future career. It did not take
place at Oxford, as most people believe, but at Keswick. ' He wan-
dered one day', related Mr. J. M. Roots in his An Apostle to Youth,
'into a little country church where a woman was speaking on some
aspect of the cross. He does not know her name, but something in
what she said stirred him to the depths, and he saw himself for what
he truly was . . . for the first time in his life he felt the power of Christ
as an inward reality.'

Soon after that incident Dr. Buchman believed he had discovered
within himself a new power. One evening during a visit at Cambridge
while walking with an undergraduate he found he had 'changed
the life' of his young friend. This episode may well have given him
the first glimpse of his future mission.

For the next few years he was the secretary of the Y.M.C. A. at an
American State College, and it was during that period that he began
to evolve the principles of the Oxford Group Movement, or, as he
sometimes called it, 'A First Century Christian Fellowship'. In the
words of the American author, Alva Johnston, he then 'perfected
himself in the great art of extracting confessions from adolescents'.
In 1916 he became extension lecturer at an American Seminary,
and from 1917 till 1919 he stayed in the Far East. In 1921 he went to

142

FRANK BUCHMAN

THE MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE

Cambridge and, in fulfilment of the request of two friends in China,
visited their undergraduate sons. Three undergraduates whose lives
he 'changed' went with him on his first crusade to Oxford. In rooms
at Christ Church he spoke of the lives he had changed from 'selfish-
ness and lust to purity and service'. In August of the same year the
first European 'house-party' took place at Cambridge.

Thenceforward the movement grew rapidly both within and with-
out the Universities. 'Houseparty' succeeded 'houseparty* and the
name of Dr. Buchman became renowned.

He chose the English Universities for his movement because, in
the words of his followers, 'they are the most neglected and ill-
handled field of spiritual endeavour'. Though the University
authorities hardly encouraged the new movement, it grew steadily
under Buchman's most efficient leadership. In organizing his move-
ment he proved to be almost a genius. He had a shrewd notion both
of publicity methods and of English psychology. He was tactful,
quiet, discreet, industrious and never lacking in new ideas. He was
clever enough to keep in the background without, however, allowing
the reins to pass from his own into other hands. His financial talent
enabled him to put his movement on the sort of basis of which other
movements have dreamt for years in vain. Dr. Buchman coun-
tenanced the luxurious mode of living among the groups, though
this was held by many to be incompatible with a movement which
claimed to be purely spiritual. Buchman did not share that opinion,
and when asked one day why the groupers always stayed at such
'posh' hotels only answered: 'Why shouldn't we stay in posh hotels?
Isn't God a millionaire?'

In his quiet manner he approached everywhere the right sort of
people whose names, means or connections were of use to his move-
ment. This method was extended to the right choice of under-
graduates, and, according to Alva Johnston, 'even in the College the
Buchmanites concentrate on apple-cheeked boys of wealth and
family. . . . But it is a sound principle that has caused the Buch-
manites to show less concern for the shaggy oafs than for presentable
youngsters with influence in the college communities'.

In 1926 Buchman entertained Queen Marie of Rumania in a house
owned by John D. Rockefeller, jr., in New York. He knew, no
doubt, that certain women love being scolded by men, especially if
they are not dependent upon them, for when the Queen asked him
what her main sins were, Buchman answered with a tactful smile:

143

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

* Pride and self-satisfaction.' The Queen was most impressed by his
shrewd observation, and allowed him to hang yet another royal
scalp round his waist — the scalps of ex-King George of Greece and
King Prajadhipok of Siam were hanging there already. Buchman
realized that it paid to satisfy the snobbishness of his followers
even in their religious pursuits. The list of his titled patrons and
followers was bound to impress the average sinner who found him-
self all of a sudden by virtue of his new religion sharing sins side
by side with bishops, members of the Upper House, and foreign
women of title.

On the other hand certain serious-minded people who failed to
see the necessity of marrying religion to society were shocked. Their
opinions were summarized in a letter from the Bishop of Durham
to The Times, published in 1933. The Bishop stated that many people
had written to him about Buchmanism, expressing 'disgust at the
toadying to rich and prominent individuals, at the unscrupulous and
even unwarranted use made of well-known names'. This, however,
could not deter Dr. Buchman from unswervingly following his own
road, and helping his movement to grow in what Mr. Ken Twitchell,
his charming American right-hand man, called in a conversation
with me 'geometrical and no longer arithmetical proportions'.

'Houseparties' and campaigns in foreign countries were the main
channels through which Buchmanism sought to conquer the world.
'Houseparties', one of those inventions of Dr. Buchman in which
society and religion can be blended together, are large semi-religious
gatherings; 'guests are treated as guests . . . gloom is conspicuous by
its absence, and there is more laughter . . . than at many ordinary
social gatherings'. 'Groups are held in the living-room, and people
are free to go or not as they choose. Informality is the order of the
day. . . . The object of the houseparty is frankly to relate modern
individuals to Jesus Christ. . . . Bible study usually takes up an
important part of each day. Separate groups for men and women
. . . provide an opportunity for discussion of various problems con-
nected with sex or money . . .' (J. M. Roots). Besides a big yearly
houseparty in the summer at Oxford, there were others in various
parts of Great Britain, in the United States, South Africa, Canada
and in most continental countries. 'Houseparties' took place in
University colleges rented for that'purpose, in big hotels at popular
spas, and even in the private country houses of rich members. Games,
motor drives and dinner parties formed an important part of these

144

THE MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE

gatherings. Miss Marjorie Harrison, a serious student of Buch-
manism, sums up these houseparties amusingly, though somewhat
bitingly, in her entertaining book Saints Run Mad: 'When they are
not eating,' she says, 'they are meeting, and when they are not
meeting they are confessing their sins. . . .'

To-day there must be Buchman groups in some fifty countries,
and the number of 'changed lives' must go into many thousands.
When I asked Mr. Ken Twitchell about the approximate size and
growth of Buchmanism, he only gave me a faint smile and made
a nonchalant gesture with one hand, as though saying that the
movement was beyond counting the number of its converts. There
are Anglican bishops, American millionaires, Scandinavian mag-
nates, colonial dignitaries, sport celebrities, elderly hostesses, movie
stars, Christians, Jews, Mohammedans in the Oxford group, which
is probably one of the largest modern religious movements. In real
influence or popularity it cannot be compared with the Salvation
Army or the Y.M.C.A., but its methods of self-advertising are
much more effective, and the names of some of its members render
it much better 'news' in the press.

There are few living men of whom I heard more praise or more
criticism than of Dr. Buchman, and I was really anxious to meet him
personally. His young friends kept promising that I should see him
'as soon as Frank has finished the present house-party'. But as these
parties seemed to be following one after another, no meeting could
be arranged, and the cheerful young men comforted me meanwhile
with their latest publications and with impressive stories of recent
conversions, described in their phraseology as 'changed lives*. In the
summer of 1934 they even asked me to join them on their Scan-
dinavian campaign in the autumn, during which I should be able
to study those aspects of their movement that might have escaped
my attention in England, and I was genuinely sorry that lack of time
prevented me from joining them.

Ill

'The Oxford group has no membership list, subscriptions, rules.
It is a name for a group of people who . . . have surrendered their
lives to God and who are endeavouring to lead a spiritual quality of
life under the guidance of the Holy Spirit.' The main methods by
which the groupers believe that we can achieve such a life are:
K 145

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

4 1. The sharing of our sins and temptations with another Christian
life given to God, and to help others, still unchanged, to recognize
and acknowledge their sins.

'2. Surrender of our life, past, present and future, into God's
keeping and direction.

'3. Restitution to all whom we have wronged directly or in-
directly.

'4. Listening to, accepting, relying on God's guidance.'

There are various principles in Buchmanism which are valuable
and for the rediscovery of which Dr. Buchman deserves gratitude.
On the other hand much will have to be changed before
those friendly sections of the public, who agree with its most im-
portant principles but find it impossible to subscribe to certain
distortions of an otherwise sound doctrine, will accept Buchmanism.
Paradoxically enough, movements that pride themselves on their
rapid growth are apt to forget that in reality their following is much
smaller than it might be. A cheerful, simple and unintellectual
revivalism such as Buchmanism should appeal not merely to twenty
or thirty thousand British people but to a hundred times as many.

Unfortunately the groups believe that they must cut themselves
off from all criticism and they forget that not all criticism is an-
tagonistic. This superiority or fear suggests an inner weakness. It
seems that even within the movement criticism is not tolerated.
Miss Harrison, who knows the groups intimately, states that
1 Criticism from outside is combated not by a defence — for criticism
is desperately feared — within the group criticism is absolutely for-
bidden.' If this is true, then the groups almost deliberately cut them-
selves off from the thinking section of their sympathetic observers.

One of the first things that alienate many friends of Buchmanism
is its assumption that there is only one road to truth, happiness and
Christian life, and that this is the one prescribed by Dr. Buchman.
* Truth is not the exclusive possession of any group or society', says
Mr. R. H. S. Grossman, one of the most serious students of Buch-
manism.1 'The chief accusation levelled against the critic of the
groups is spiritual pride, but is exclusiveness so very different a sin?'
he asks, not without justification. Time and again former sinners
1 Oxford and the Groups.
146

THE MAN WHOSE GOD ISA MILLIONAIRE

have found their way to God, without feeling the urge to confess
their sins in public, without trying to convert others, without pre-
tending that their most trivial decisions have been dictated directly
by God.

Let us examine some of the principles of Buchmanism.

Strangely enough, sin is its entire basis. It has even led to a
somewhat schoolboyish explanation of the word 'sin'. We are
told that 4in the "I" in the word sin lies the secret of sin's power.
The I or the ego is more important to sinners than spiritual
health. ... If we can surrender that I to God, sin goes with it;
when we live without that I in our lives we are without sin.' Such
a formula probably helps people along who like being guided by
a cheap symbolism, or by a knowledge gained through tempting
slogans.

Though the T in sin is considered by the groups as man's greatest
enemy, in practice it plays the predominant part in Buchmanism.
All the confessions of the groupers are built round the former
wickedness and the present salvation of the I. Every confession
can be reduced to the formula: 'Formerly I did that, and then I did
something else, and eventually I surrendered, and now I do only
this.'

Should a religious revival ever be based on the idea of sin? Con-
stant preoccupation with certain ideas makes them real to us. The
majority of serious teachers tell us that one way of eliminating the
evil within us is by neglecting it and by concentrating instead on
what is good. When in certain parts of Burma a man approaches
his hour of death, people assemble in his room and remind him
one by one of all the good deeds he has ever performed. Should
not modern revivalism be based on a similar attitude?

' Surrender', or the conversion of a sinner, is the first command-
ment of Buchmanism. In the terminology of the groups, ' Surrender
to God is our actual passing from a life of sin to a life God-guided
and Christ-conscious ... it is* the giving up of our old ineffective
spiritual lives and taking on of a life of spiritual activity in everything

we think, do or say '

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

The groups are right in demanding that we should listen more to
God and less to ourselves, and they deserve our grateful acknowledge-
ment for having brought home that truth to thousands of people. On
the other hand, have not millions of people surrendered their lives
to God even before the coming of Buchmanism?

There are various anomalies in the movement which weaken the
principle of surrender. Thus we are asked to effect our surrender
through the hands of young boys and girls whose knowledge of life is
practically nil. We are expected to surrender in all the glare of a
public ceremony. A hilarious public performance is surely not the
perfect background for such a mysterious act as man's surrender to
God. Surveying surrender as practised by the groups, Mr. Cross-
man notices 'the appalling danger of giving such specialized pastoral
work to young people of no experience', and 'the risk of the release,
when achieved, being of short duration'. 'In their recent American
tour,' he continues, 'the groups on at least three occasions . . .
found the work of conversion far harder in towns where they had
previously worked: still more significantly at Louisville, where two
years previously hundreds had made their surrender, they had found
only eleven who had remained in any sense active members.' Miss
Harrison thinks that 'it is a healthy sign that so many of the Buchman
converts fall away quickly'. It seems sad that it should be so, though
it must be admitted that through 'the irresistible temptation to col-
lect conversions, and to magnify past sins for the sake of the effect
they create . . . truth is bound to be sacrificed to effect.'1

VII

Most important after surrender is sharing, the 'telling of, or
talking over, our sins with another whose life has already been
surrendered'. Sharing, which plays the paramount role in Buch-
manism, offers us the main key to its understanding.

Sharing of sins is certainly very helpful to some people. By adopt-
ing and systematizing the practice of confession, the Roman Catholic
Church has dealt more effectively than any other religious body with
that problem, and the discussion of such personal matters as 'sin'
forms an important part of the educational system of various
esoteric schools. But this is done after the most careful preparation
and in the most restrained language. Both in the Roman Catholic
1 Oxford and the Groups.
148

THE MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE

Church and in esoteric schools confession is always treated with
the utmost discretion and discrimination.

My first experiences of sharing as practised by the Buchmanites
surprised me greatly. I was sitting in the packed hall of the Hotel
Metropole, asking myself constantly whether I hadn't come to the
wrong place. The flavour of the whole performance was one of
amateur theatricals, and other serious-minded people with whom I
discussed my experience told me that they had carried away exactly
the same impression. There were one or two hesitant and genuine
confessions — but on account of their triviality even they failed to be
impressive. What was one to say when a girl of about seventeen got
up and confessed that she had 'made a broad survey of religion',
had realized that no religion 'was any good', and that Buchmanism
was the only true faith that could give 'spiritual happiness' . . . and
when a thousand grown-up people clapped their approval? Most of
the confessions had all the signs of a carefully prepared performance.
Though the production was clever, the utter lack of reverence made
it singularly ineffective. Jokes were made with the regularity of
those in a vaudeville theatre.

My original suspicion proved justified when I went to other
meetings and discovered that the same young men and women con-
fessed the same sins, repeating the same jokes, forcing the same
laughter and the same interruptions from a claque distributed cleverly
in the hall. But that was not all. The young men and women who
were supposed to have adopted a 'Christlike quality' of life — abso-
lute honesty and truthfulness — were often not honest. There were
distinct variations in the same confessions made by the same people.
Those variations were so small that the inexperienced listener would
hardly have discovered them. In one instance, the sum involved in a
particular confession was £5, next time it became £10; likewise the
character or extent of certain confessed sins such as minor frauds, lies,
motoring offences, was rarely exactly the same at different meetings.

There was no doubt about it — either the whole confession was an
invention, or an original little misdeed was twisted round, exaggerated
and treated with little respect for truth. And yet those confessions
were supposed to be the genuine and spontaneous expressions of a
sinner who had at last recognized God and felt bound to share the
joy of a newfound happiness with others.

There were, of course, confessions that appeared to be honest.
They mostly dealt with such trivial matters or were expressed in

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

such a way that it was impossible to take them seriously. A few
examples may suffice.

L 'Sharing' in rooms at one of the Universities. A youth of about
twenty, with a very serious expression on his face, got up and con-
fessed: 'My trouble was the weather.' Long pause. 'Formerly I used
to be worried by the weather, wondering whether it would rain or
not. I used to go constantly to the window, looking at the sky.
Since I have surrendered, and listen-in to God every morning, I no
longer worry about the weather.' He sat down, and remained serious
for the rest of the meeting.

2. Another undergraduate: 'My sin was self-abuse. Formerly I
always had a bad conscience, because when I indulged in self-abuse
I accompanied it by wicked thoughts. Since my surrender I no longer
need to have these thoughts.' No-one blushed; no-one even smiled.

3. A young girl confessed a trivial sin which she overcame by
what she modestly explained as, 'I put Christ to the test, and Christ
gave the victory.'

4. During a visit to New York the story of the following instance
of 'sharing' was making the round. A famous young hostess and
her butler had been 'changed' and became ardent Buchmanites.
During one of the largest group meetings in New York the lady
got up to confess intimate details of her matrimonial life and her
differences with her husband. After her the butler got up, confessing
former sinful thoughts about his mistress, speaking of his former
spying upon her and elaborating matrimonial details previously
divulged by the lady. The lady was the mother of several children
who were at school, and her husband, as yet 'unchanged', occupied
an important and most respectable position in New York.

Nothing upset me so much as the hilarity that accompanied most
of the confessions. Dr. Buchman always instructs converts preparing
for their first public confessions in the way they should speak, and
he then stresses the paramount importance of being hilarious.
At first I refused to believe this to be true, but later these instructions
were confirmed by his own fellow workers and published by Miss
Harrison in her book. Once you comprehended that schoolboyish
lightheartedness, naivete and goodfellowship were responsible for
much of the success of Buchmanism, you perceived why hilarity
was indispensable.

Hilarity was no doubt a natural expression of Dr. Buchman's
own character; but his followers exaggerated it in the same way in

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THE.MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE

which they exaggerate when they speak of his character. They use
such phrases as 'Merriment bursts through the shaving soap',
'Astir with the birds', 'Crows with joy'. Mr. A. J. Russell, author of
For Sinners Only, and the leading historian of the movement, says
of Buchman that 'whatever he does he feels is right'. After such a
statement one feels inclined to agree with the New Yorker, that
brilliant American periodical, which says: 'The picture of radiant,
soapy and laughing Buchman is, of course, elaborated in order to
offset the suspicion that there is something unhealthy and lugubrious
about the movement.'

Dr. Buchman's friends constantly speak of those ' bouncing' and
even 'crackling' qualities of 'Frank', and thus simply force us to
look out for these features in their leader. His praises are sung
and printed in all the books of the movement. 'The extent of his
(Buchman's) tireless devotion to work for Christ', we are told by the
author of What is the Oxford Group? 'will never be fully reckoned
by any man.' One can only hope that such exaggeration will not
induce Dr. Buchman to forget that thousands of men before him
have suffered, sacrificed themselves and died in the service of Christ.

But let us go back to 'sharing'. The usual procedure of a 'sharing'
meeting is described most amusingly by Alva Johnston. 'The washing
out,' he says, 'to use the Buchmanites' technical term of confession,
starts on a seemingly accidental note with mild or slapstick con-
fessions; talking back to a traffic cop, overspending the weekly
allowance. . . . The confessing is then stepped up a little, to the

smuggling through the customs of ear-rings in ajar of cold cream

At about this time a claqueur breaks down, pleads guilty to an error
in a parked car and tells how buoyant he feels because he has con-
fessed it. If the ice is well broken some lad may now turn State's

evidence against a governess or upstairs maid If the party grows

warm, it may seem almost discourteous to the hosts not to contribute
a few scarlet reminiscences. . . . The backward ones are exhorted
to brace up, be men, play the game, and pull their weight in the boat
by furnishing the company with their fair share of purple memoirs.'

I could never make myself leave a sharing meeting without
feeling ashamed that one of the holiest things should have become
the subject of playacting.

'Many persons, of whom I must admit that I am one,' says Dr.
L. P. Jacks, the author of an important paper on Buchmanism,
'have a strong feeling which is probably instinctive that our sins,

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whether great or small, are not a proper subject for publicity. . . .
It is a sense of decency. . . . There is something in many of us that
shrinks from spiritual nudism.'

VIII

This brings us to the very important subject of silence. Dr. Buch-
man's oldest fellow worker, Mr. Loudon Hamilton, expresses the
demands of his movement in the following words: * We must learn
the secret of living and working together. We must be willing to
share not only our time, our homes, our money, but to take down
the mask and reveal our moral and spiritual struggles.'

Buchmanites are never left to themselves, never work by them-
selves, are supposed never to keep anything to themselves.

Can it possibly be the aim of a religion to destroy all privacy, so
essential for serious work, for real thought? Is it not one of the dis-
tinctions between man and animal that the latter prefers living in
families or herds whilst man likes to withdraw into himself every
now and again, to listen to the voices of what Dean Inge expressively
calls 'higher reality*? The social ideals of the Buchmanites seem to be
beehives and ants' nests.

Silence is an important element in all religions. Not only does
natural modesty and shyness make us keep a great many things to
ourselves, but there is also that inborn fear of speaking before
thought and feeling have taken final shape. Eliphas Levi, the
French occultist, says in his Le Grand Secret: 'Silence is one of the
great laws of occultism', and 'To come to the realization of the
deepest secret we must . . . keep silence with determination/

The silence of the mystics of the Scriptures, of Buddha is the
very opposite of the endless flood of words which accompany shar-
ing, confessing and changing other people's lives.

The only form of silence advocated by Buchmanism is that
obtained during 'guidance'. This is 'direct communication from
God', and 'the Holy Spirit taking a normal intelligence and directing
it in the fullest harmony with His will for the good of the individual
and of his neighbours'.

The Gospel of God's direct guidance is accepted by most religions.
It is closely connected with the idea of submission under God's will,
called by the Buchmanites 'surrender'. 'Each morning', we are told,
'opens with a time of quiet, during which thought is directed towards

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THE MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE

God in full conviction that ... He can make known His will.' To
achieve this the groupers sit and 'listen in' to God with a pad and
pencil ready to write down His instructions.

All through human history man has tried to get into touch with
God. We know from the Bible what effect God's voice had upon
Moses, and we know how Jesus Christ prepared himself before he
went to speak to God and hear His voice. As far as we know, only a
limited number of men in possession of higher knowledge, mystics
and saints, can claim to have been constantly or at will in direct
communication with God.

The practice of ' quiet' is very sound, and one wishes that more
people would adopt the habit of spending a certain time each day
in absolute quietness. Where, however, the groups err is in their mis-
taken belief that such 'quiet time' establishes a direct contact with
God. God has given us our mind and our will so that we may use
them in daily life and make our decisions according to their com-
mands. To sacrifice our mind and our will in order to let God
decide whether we should have another piece of cake or put on the
new green tie strikes ordinary people as blasphemous. This is, how-
ever, the way Buchmanites treat guidance. Not even the most trivial
decision is taken without asking God for guidance. We are told (in
For Sinners Only) that Dr. Buchman 'asks guidance for expenditure
on postage'. When Dr. Buchman enquired at a big hotel in Canada
about rooms for a houseparty and was informed that the price
would be 1 2 dollars a day per head, he answered that ' God had told'
him to pay no more than 3.50 a day. We are told by Miss Harrison
that at a houseparty which she attended the members were instructed
to 'ask God's guidance as to the amount' they 'should tip the hotel
servants'.

The whole subject of group guidance was most admirably summed
up in the following sentence in a leading article in The Times:
'Most of what is put forward as guidance received in these periods of
relaxed attention is so trivial that it would be impious to ascribe
it to the promptings of God.'

It is not difficult to find the reasons for Dr. Buchman's success,
especially in Great Britain. Public confession is not new in British
religious life. Emotional, self-contented people delight in confessing
their sins. Public confession is a form of exhibitionism common

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among people with little self-control. Many British people love to
hear someone at a Salvation Army meeting confessing former
drunkenness and debauchery. They love to hear from the Park
orator of his religious, political or moral faith; they love the
confession of a former agnostic at a revivalist meeting who now
spends his days singing hymns and praising the Lord. There
are many people who love speaking of their former wickedness
and present holiness in front of elegantly dressed ladies and
gentlemen.

Intellectual simplicity is another reason for the success of Buch-
manism. Most people do not like religion to be complicated. The
simple, hearty character of Buchmanism appeals to the rugger
player, the hardened business man, the more 'sporting' kind of
clergyman. To be able to combine religion with slapping one's
neighbours on the back, telling them stories — even though under
the guise of public confession — and getting into direct communica-
tion with God without racking one's brains must be very tempting
to most sinners.

Dr. Buchman showed great tactical talent when he decided to
remain within the Church. Many a priest has been worried in the
years following the war about the dwindling attendance of young
people at church. In Buchmanism the clergy are confronted with a
movement that by its heartiness, playacting and emotionalism makes
religion attractive to many young people. It is not at all surprising
that several Anglican bishops have joined the ranks of Dr. Buchman,
and that many English clergymen see in him a powerful supporter,
to whose doctrine they subscribe willingly.

This rather uncritical support on the part of some clerics may
be one among the reasons for the groups' unwillingness to accept
any criticism, and for their belief that they are above it. Why was I
never allowed to make a definite appointment with Dr. Buchman?
I was still in touch with some of his assistants who must have known
that my sympathy with their movement was not uncritical. They
continued to assure me that a meeting would be arranged without
further delay, but a pressing question was generally met with such
answers as 'Frank has just gone off to Switzerland', or 'Frank is
taking a cure at Baden-Baden', or 'Frank has only just come back
from a houseparty in Norway'. I began to suspect that 'Frank' was
not only busy visiting and arranging houseparties and journeying
all over Europe, but that he was avoiding me. When, however, the

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THE MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE

obliging young men assured me that I would see him before Christ-
mas I thought I was being unfair to him, and I continued to look
forward to the pleasure of a conversation with 'Frank'.

The groups assert that their methods can solve most problems
of modern life. One of them is sex, and the groups boast of many
sex cases, especially in England, in which their method was more
successful than any other. Young men, particularly undergraduates,
testify over and over again that Buchmanism has solved this problem
for them. It is never stated quite clearly in what way this has been
achieved, and we can only go by the statements made by the official
representatives of the movement. 'The sex instinct', we read in Mr.
Roots' pamphlet, 'is at bottom a God-given one; and while the
groups do not condone any perversion of thought or word or deed,
they know that the real problem is not one of suppression but one of
control and sublimation. . . . The cure lies ultimately not in mere
human force of will, but in the cleansing stream of spiritual life that
follows upon a genuine conversion.'

No-one could argue that the sex problem is fundamentally a
spiritual one, or that it can be solved spiritually. On the other hand
it is doubtful whether the 'cleansing stream that follows upon a
genuine conversion' has really the power to eliminate all the sexual
difficulties of youth once and for all.

We can understand the attitude of the Buchmanites towards
sex only in its connection with the corresponding attitude of the
Englishman at large. Sex is not as important a problem in the life of
an Englishman as it is in the life of most foreigners, and sublimation
of sex thus comes more easily to him. Suppression of sex through
sport and other methods taught by English education and the con-
ventions of English life has been practised for generations and has
led eventually to an inner fortitude, the result of which is the com-
parative sexual indifference of most Englishmen. Many an English-
man suppresses or, as the Buchmanites call it, sublimates his sex
instinct and leads it into other channels without subscribing to the
methods advocated by them. The successes of sex sublimation in the
Oxford group would have been more impressive if they had been
achieved among members of those nations in whose lives sex really
plays a predominant part. Five 'sublimated' Arabs, Italians or

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Frenchmen would prove the efficacy of Buchman's sex methods
more convincingly than five hundred English undergraduates. But
we look for them in vain, and can merely acknowledge that the sex
salvation of Buchmanism is being achieved merely by the under-
sexed.

The groups are said to have been instrumental in the bringing
about of a racial understanding between certain sections of the
South African population. A less doubtful achievement of the
Oxford group is the fellowship that has been created by and within
the movement. People who formerly were left to themselves, or who
were unable to kindle within themselves a feeling of friendship and
altruism, began to develop these virtues, which struck me as the most
attractive characteristic of the groups. The qualities of unselfish
collaboration and understanding will probably remain as the
important contribution of Buchmanism to modern life, long after
most of its principles have been forgotten.

As to the elimination of racial prejudice I can only judge from
personal experience. During one of the meetings I attended, a titled
German woman spoke of the wonderful results Buchman had pro-
duced in her country: peasants and landowners, soldiers and storm
troopers, workmen and students were gathering together to exchange
their spiritual experiences and to establish a common basis of a
Christlike life. 'What about the common basis and fellowship
between the Nazis and the Jews?' someone in the audience shouted
out. 'What about the understanding and lack of class distinction
between Nazi Buchmanites and former intellectuals, and socialists,
and liberals, between Nazi Buchmanites and non-Nazis?' The
poor lady blushed violently and did not reply, but the inquisitive
gentleman was more or less shouted down. When sceptical listeners
made a similar enquiry at other meetings the result was the same —
except that in most cases they were no longer allowed to finish
their question.

This is where the movement seems to be failing: it claims too much
and it advertises its successes too widely without ever admitting its
failures. I was rather shocked when I picked up one day a book of
famous murder cases and found in it a detailed report of a notorious
trial in which the accused was a Buchmanite. The unfortunate case
only showed that one can be a grouper who has 'surrendered,

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THE MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE

changed, shared and restituted' and even converted the sinful
lives of other people and yet remain, to say the least, a crook. The
famous Buchman crusade that went out in 1929 to 'change' South
Africa included a certain young Englishman, D. M. This grouper
remained in South Africa, eloped with a young girl, and was charged
in the autumn of 1931 at Maritzburg with the murder and robbery
of a native taxi-driver. After a long trial he was acquitted of the
murder, but was found guilty of 'a number of lesser offences, in-
cluding fraud and forgery. He had not long stepped from the dock
when he was rearrested on these charges. . . . He pleaded guilty to
charges of forgery and fraud. ... At the close of the trial D. M. was
recommitted to gaol on a warrant from Johannesburg which alleged
additional charges of fraud against him.'

It would be absurd to forge a link between D. M.'s felonies and his
being a Buchmanite, but the groups claim that it is sufficient for a
man to be 'changed' to ensure in that man's life thenceforward
all the Christlike qualities. The South African case shows us the most
natural truth that no-one has the right to make such monstrous
claims, for we are entitled to ask: Did D.M. commit his various
frauds in accordance with 'guidance' obtained in his * quiet time' or
was the life-changing power of the groups so weak that it did not
prevent him on such important occasions from acting on his own?
It is dangerous to put the idea of divine guidance into the minds of
inexperienced youths who have no education or discipline to enable
them to distinguish between the voice of their conscience and that
of their deeper desires. 'I can only say', writes Mr. Reginald Lennard.
fellow and tutor of an Oxford college, in the Nineteenth Century,
'that I have known Oxford for three years as an undergraduate, and
have worked in Oxford as a college tutor for some twenty-two
years, and it seems to me that of all the movements . . . almost, if
not quite the most depraving in its ultimate tendency, and the most
insidiously inimical to the formation of fine character, is the group
movement which Dr. Buchman has brought us from America.'

XII

The groups believe that they can solve social and economic
problems as easily as religious and sexual ones. We are told a lot
about the happiness that Buchmanism has brought into the lives of
thousands of people; of the fellowship that exists within the groups

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among Communists, Fascists, Socialists and others; of the greater
understanding between the employees and employers where the latter
have become groupers. There is no doubt that the groups have indeed
helped in thousands of individual cases. But can they solve as they
claim any of the burning problems that involve not a few thousand
individuals but humanity at large?

J. B. Priestley, who has never left any doubt as to the sincerity
of his preoccupation with social conditions, expressed in 1934 his
opinion of the methods of the groups for the solution of social
problems. *I do not think', he wrote, referring to a Buchmanite
publication, 'I should have considered this pamphlet worth writing
about — if it had not contained a paragraph headed "A Message
to the Unemployed". In this paragraph the writer suggests that the
movement is capable of doing more for the unemployed than can
be done by anything else in the world. Not only can it bring them a
spiritual comfort ... it will bring them jobs again. This seems to me
mischievous doctrine. If young men from Oxford and Cambridge
like to confess their sins to one another, to listen-in to Heaven and
go charging round Canada and South Africa in a state of hearty
priggish self-complacency, that is their affair and not ours. . . . But
when such people begin to talk nonsense of this kind to the unem-
ployed it is time to protest. All new religious movements . . . are
soon able to acquire funds. But it is quite another thing to assert
that the business of the nation . . . can be put in order by the same easy-
going methods. This is where the mischief begins. . . . There is no
divine plan for keeping children in poverty and misery . . . until
the hour when all undergraduates confess their sins and stop casting
lustful glances upon barmaids.'

Mr. C. R. Morris, another student of the groups, says that * All
the appearances are that the group leaves its members at most
vaguely interested in these things (social problems). It will stand as a
hindrance to simple but necessary improvements in the common
affairs of life. . . .' (Oxford and the Groups).

It seems as though Dr. Buchman's preoccupation with the financial
and social side of his movement has made him forget the urgency
of many social and economic problems. Two friends of mine visited
him one day to discuss a business matter. When he told them that
he had just come back from a group meeting in the East End, one
of my friends expressed surprise at the quarter. 'Oh, I suppose we
must have the poor with us', was Dr. Buchman's reply.

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THE MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE

The groups acknowledge that the problem of money is connected
with the problem of social injustice. 'Money and possessions are
treated as belonging to the whole category of material things which
are not in themselves either evil or good' (Roots). This is a very
sound statement, and equally right is the conclusion drawn from it
that 'to a man trying sincerely to do God's will rather than his own,
and seeking daily guidance towards this end, there is no problem
either of pride in receiving for his own needs or of miserliness in
giving to supply the needs of others'. Optimistic detachment from
money matters is no doubt a good attitude — but it is not enough to
solve the economic problems of a nation. It is difficult to judge
whether such an attitude — no matter how right in itself — would
have been kept up by the groups had Dr. Buchman been a less
ingenious organizer. 'Without him,' says R. H. S. Grossman in
Oxford and the Groups, 'the movement would certainly not have the
money to spend that it now has. There are at least thirty wholetime
workers, living, and living comfortably, on contributions. It has
been calculated that the last American tour must have cost more
than £25,000. It is this money, and Dr. Buchanan's organizing

powers, which support these professional evangelists The remark

made by one young evangelist, "I always wanted this kind of life:
big hotels, comfort, powerful cars, and the best people — and as
soon as I get changed, God gives them all to me!" is not mythical,
and it is a warning.'

Dr. Buchman's private income does not exceed, in his own words,
£50 a year.

XIII

Most of the failings that must needs shock many serious observers
could easily be cured if the attitude of the Buchmanites were less
superior, if they listened to well-meant criticism and if they admitted
that, in a revivalism catering rather for the 'better classes', emotions
must be blended with intellect. The contempt of the groupers for
intellectual or merely serious conversation surprised me each time
I came in touch with any of them. A movement that has adopted
the name of one of the most distinguished Universities of the world
and yet expresses contempt for all intellectual methods or discussions,
becomes, to say the least of it, incomprehensible.

Undoubtedly the simpleton finds his way to heaven more easily
than the 'brainy fellow'. Millions keep away from church — not

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because they are irreligious, but because they experience genuine
difficulties in accepting uncritically the message of the Churches.
Buchmanism preaches that we ought to give up all intellectual pre-
occupation with spiritual matters and base our lives solely on faith,
when Buchman's message of happiness will become an actual life
force in our existence. This may be true, but unfortunately most
people find it difficult to accept blindly a new primitive gospel.
The acceptance of a religious belief is not like that of a tooth-
paste or a brand of tobacco. Our religious needs are not easy to
locate or to define and cannot be fed with a formula. The desire
to doubt and to investigate new tracks is an inborn and divine
instinct.

The intellectual needs of most of the groupers I met seemed so
limited as not to worry them at all. Theirs was not the kind of
intellect that loves probing to the root of a question. They were
perfectly happy to accept one thing as sin, another as God's voice,
and a third as something equally clear cut and undeniable. If I
questioned the truth of their assumptions they only answered: 'You'll
see that it is so the moment you are changed. Surrender will open
your eyes.' It was rather like the answer of the Nazis in Germany
who would always stop any argument by saying, 'Hitler says it,
and so it must be right.' The groupers boasted about Dr. Buchman
'persisting in his custom of refusing to argue about intellectual
difficulties' (For Sinners Only).

None of the Buchmanites I came in touch with seemed to know
much about other religions, philosophies or spiritual systems.
People of their kind could easily be converted to almost any creed.
As there are few people with exacting minds and independent
spiritual ambitions — and millions without either of these — it can be
assumed that Buchmanism will go on offering a spiritual haven to
many more sinners.

Conversation with groupers invariably turned to stories of changed
lives, to some 'topping' confession or restitution. Literature, art,
music, politics, economics, might not have existed. I was reminded
of conversation in Hollywood where every subject is viewed solely
from its cinematographic aspects. When after the murder of the
French President Doumer a visitor at a dinner party in Hollywood
turned to his neighbour and said, 'How terrible about the murder
of the President!' the answer came, 'Oh, who produced it?' Life
outside the movie camera did not exist.

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THE MAN WHOSE GOD IS A MILLIONAIRE

For the Buchmanites life outside Buchmanism did not exist.
Each time I tried to introduce a topic unconnected with group
activities, they listened politely for a few minutes, but after that their
faces became blank, and their former cordiality gave place to that
cool reserve that I had noticed at the end of my first luncheon at the
Metropole.

The intellectual attitude of the groupers is best illustrated by their
schoolboyish love of certain word concoctions. Dr. Buchman him-
self is the main inspirer of such a representation of spiritual truth.
Thus he explains the word Pray as:

Powerful
Radiograms
Always
Yours

The letters of the name of Jesus are used by him to form the sentence
Just Exactly Suits Us Sinners.

The Times summed up the intellectual attitude of the groupers
in a leading article. 'It must be the most serious charge against the
groups,' said the distinguished paper, 'that they encourage their
members to shirk the discipline of thought in favour of impulses
received from they know not where.*

XIV

Even a year after Dr. Buchman gave me that encouraging smile
his young friends were still assuring me that I should meet him soon.
I heard from one of his lieutenants that he had * stressed the urgency
of the matter' in a letter to Buchman's right-hand man Ken Twit-
chell. Though Dr. Buchman was at the time in London and though
he was receiving in those weeks the visits of several titled ladies, I
waited in vain for the urgency of the matter to take effect.

No-one could have a grudge against Dr. Buchman for preferring the
visits of titled ladies to those of inquisitive authors. Nevertheless I am
sorry I was never given the opportunity to talk with him, for I should
have liked to tell him that much as I admired many of his principles,
I hoped he would consent to make his movement less frivolous. I
would have told him that since he has stirred the imagination of
thousands of people and has brought home religion to them, he
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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

ought to change his revivalism in a manner which would allow it to
develop from a philosophy for undergraduates and elderly titled
ladies, into one for more serious people as well. I should have told
him that shutting himself away from all criticism would prove the
wrong policy in the end. And I should have told him how delighted
I was to have met the most successful and shrewdest publicity agent
of our time.

162

CHAPTER V

WAR AGAINST SLEEP
P. D. Ouspensky

Two years after the war Claude Bragdon, the distinguished
American author, received the following telegram from Wash-
ington at his home in Rochester: 'Tertium Organum interests me
passionately. Desire very much to meet you if possible. Leaving for
England end of month. Viscountess Rothermere.' Though Mr.
Bragdon found it impossible to go and see the lady in Washington,
he wrote in reply that he would be delighted to receive her at his
home. She accepted his invitation.

The cause of the lady's excitement was a book which she had
picked up on the bookstall of some railway station on her way to
Washington. Since she had read it she could hardly wait to know
more about the ideas expounded in it and about the personality of
the author. His name was foreign and offered no key to his where-
abouts; but as Claude Bragdon's name appeared on the title page
as that of the translator, she chose what seemed the most direct
way.

She arrived duly at Rochester and her first question was: 'Where
is Ouspensky?' Mr. Bragdon answered that Ouspensky was at
the moment in Constantinople. 'Why doesn't he come over to
Europe, to England?' asked the impatient lady. Claude Bragdon
had to explain that the times were not very propitious for Russian
6migr6 authors who wrote bulky volumes on metaphysics, who
had a family to support, and who would certainly find it difficult
to make the long journey to England, no matter how much they
might welcome such a change. The lady suggested that a certain
sum of money might be sent immediately to Constantinople to
enable Ouspensky to visit England. Claude Bragdon happened
to know that Ouspensky had friends in this country and that he
very much wanted to visit it. He sent the money to Constanti-
nople and soon afterwards the author of Tertium Organum landed
in England.

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Claude Bragdon himself told me this story in his impressively slow
sad way.1

Though Tertium Organum was a metaphysical book, it had
the success of a popular novel, and exercised a strong influence
on a great many people, especially in England and the United
States.

'What made you translate Tertium OrganumT I asked Claude
Bragdon.

'In the spring of 1918,' he answered, 'there appeared at my door
a young Russian, Nicholas Bessaraboff. He had brought with him
a Russian book for which he thought no praise could be too high.
I had to read it, and I too became very enthusiastic. We decided to
translate it together into English. He wrote down the translation
word by word, and I had to make sense of it and to put it into
intelligible English. We worked together for a very long time, and
eventually I published the book myself. It had a very great success
immediately, and sold for almost a year at the rate of a hundred
and fifty copies a week, though it dealt with metaphysics and cost
five dollars a copy.

'It took me a long time to find out where the author lived and
where to send him his royalties and a copy of our translation. I
gathered from his letters that he was enthusiastic about the publica-
tion of his book and its success, and that he wanted to come over
to the States. He had lost everything in the Russian revolution, and
in those days every foreigner visiting America for the first time had
to find an American who would undertake a financial guarantee for
him. I was unable to do this, but I wrote to Ouspensky and told him
that, as his book was such a success, something was bound to turn
up. Before my letter had reached him Viscountess Rothermere
arrived, and we were able to send him money for his journey to
England.'

Tertium Organum, which introduced the name of a hitherto
unknown Russian author to Western readers, was called by its

1 Claude Bragdon gives a detailed and most interesting account of this incident
in the chapter "The Romance and Mystery of Tertium Organum\ in his book
Merely Players, published by Alfred Knopf, New York, 1929.

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WAR AGAINST SLEEP

author 'A key to the enigmas of the world'. It was one of the
very few books which, though introducing glimpses of the occult
world into our conception of life, nevertheless was based on scien-
tific investigations. It dealt with such subjects as 'Mathematics
of the Infinite' or 'The Mystery of Time and Space', but it was
not theoretical, and most of its astounding discoveries were based
on personal observation. This personal element in a mainly scientific
book was rather new at the time, and may account for part of its
success.

Tertium Organum (which is the 'third canon of thought') was
written before the war. Even more startling was Ouspensky's next
book A New Model of the Universe. This volume of almost a quarter
of a million words presented an entirely new conception of the world,
in which purely spiritual discoveries were placed side by side with
purely materialistic-scientific ones. The New Model cannot possibly
be analysed here; and Ouspensky, moreover, had himself developed
beyond some of its ideas which were conceived mostly before the
war. The book dealt with subjects ranging from yoga to Einstein's
relativity; with the Gospels, the study of dreams and a new theory
of a six-dimensional universe. It was too scientific to follow Tertium
Organum as a best seller, and too unorthodox in its whole conception
to be accepted immediately by the necessarily slow and conservative
machinery of official science. Ouspensky's positive attitude towards
'hidden' knowledge was convincingly balanced by his intellectual
perspicacity and his scientific training. Here was a book that could
be compared with Rudolf Steiner's best: the author displayed at
once the same spirit of scientific detachment and the same open-
mindedness with regard to spiritual knowledge which is not yet
accepted by science; and though many of the purely scientific and
mathematical parts were a closed book to me, I was told by experts
that they were as new and as convincing as the less scientific sections.
By the time I had reached the last page of the book, over which I
spent an entire month's holiday, I understood the impatience of Lady
Rothermere, who had been 'passionately interested' in Tertium
Organum.

After prolonged enquiries I succeeded in finding out that Ouspen-
sky was living in England and holding classes in London. He seemed
anxious that those classes should be attended only by those who

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felt a genuine need for such knowledge as is suggested in his two
books. I was eventually asked to come to one of his lectures. It was
to be the beginning of a new cycle; I should be able to study his
method from the very beginning.

The meeting took place in a private house in Kensington. A lady
with radiant eyes and the high cheekbones of a Russian was sitting
in the front passage at a little table. She asked me my name, and wrote
it down on a sheet of paper under a number of others. The lecture
was to take place in a big room on the ground floor. About forty
people were sitting facing a little table and the chair of the lecturer.
The room had plain striped curtains and walls painted in a sober
mauve-grey. Except for a vase with a few branches of cherry blossom
made of mother of pearl and two modern brass trays on the mantel-
piece, the room was undecorated. Next to the lecturer's table there
was a blackboard, on which were the words 'Psychology as a Study
of Objective Consciousness'.

The room filled up within five minutes, and altogether there must
have been about seventy people present. They suggested a continental
rather than a London audience: there were more men than women;
most faces were rather intellectual; there was none of the elegance
which one meets at occasional intellectual gatherings in Mayfair;
neither were there any of the dark-coloured shirts and affected voices
of Bloomsbury. I knew three of the men by sight: two of them were
well-known professional men and the third was a peer, a fervent
patron of the arts. There were a number of men and women in the
early twenties, but middle-aged people prevailed.

Ouspensky entered the room almost unnoticed. He was white-
haired, clean shaven, above the middle age, stout, bespectacled, and
he walked up to the table, sat down, pulled a bundle of manuscripts
out of his pocket and then began to speak without any introductory
remarks. A more prosaic start to a lecture which aimed at revealing
some of the deepest secrets of human existence could hardly be
imagined.

I had some difficulty in understanding the first few sentences.
The lecturer spoke English; but it was an English with soft melting
vowels and with distinct and brisk consonants, the diction consisting
of a mixture of soft cadences and sudden abrupt stops. It sounded

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WAR AGAINST SLEEP

as though he were really speaking Russian, though using English
words. Once I became accustomed to his Russian accent I recognized
that he had a fair command of English. When on the other hand he
could not find the right word he simply said: 'or something else' or
'or anything you want' or 'how to say', and left it at that, without
any sign of self-consciousness or embarrassment. You had to take it
or leave it. This was impressive.

Though Ouspensky hardly ever took his eyes off the manuscript
in front of him, he did not read it. It seemed to serve as a focus for
his eyes, and he referred to it only occasionally, and when he did
so a long pause ensued. Ouspensky would take off his spectacles,
and hold the manuscript close to his eyes. He would then read a
sentence or two. This would be done not without an expression of
strain on his face, as though he were reading something he had never
seen before. There were none of the usual mannerisms which one so
often meets with in professional lecturers. Ouspensky's movements
were brisk but not hasty; the pauses and sudden halts seemed either
the result of a natural reserve or merely lack of forensic gifts. There
was nothing affected about them.

Though the speaker's manner of speech, with its clipped sentences
and words that were left in the air, was at times bewildering, the
lecture itself was extremely clear. The speaker's approach to his
subject was very direct; the basis of his arguments painstakingly
scientific, and altogether one felt that a searching mind of great
independence was here revealed.

One of the speaker's first sentences was: 'None of you here is
awake. What you all do is — sleep.' After he had made this remark
he stopped abruptly, as though withdrawing from the world of
words into his own more comfortable world. His appearance
suddenly suggested to me some modern version of Buddha.
The audience waited for almost a minute. The lecturer then went
on: 'The difference between your present state of consciousness
and your consciousness at night while you sleep is very small.
It is not a fundamental difference; merely a difference of degree.'
After saying this, Buddha withdrew into his own world again.
Ten seconds passed. Then he continued: 'I cannot give you defini-
tions of the subjects I shall talk to you about, because the

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

meanings you attach to most words are wrong. Anyhow, as I give
the words a different meaning, we should not understand each
other. Therefore I can only try to develop my ideas to you, and
you'll have to make an effort to grasp the meaning I attach to
certain words as we go on.'

After this preface, Ouspensky tried to explain that he himself
considered that modem psychology had taken over practically the
whole range of interests that formerly belonged to philosophy, and
that for him psychology was merely the knowledge of man not as
a final being but as something unfinished and constantly changing.
It was not hard to see that his psychological system would have very
little in common with any other system.

'I personally consider', the lecturer continued, 'that subconscious-
ness or unconsciousness, of which modern psychologists speak so
much, does not exist at all. There can only exist many different levels
of consciousness, and in all of them the element of time plays an
important part. Man can be selfconscious — conscious of himself —
only for a fraction of a second. He thinks he can be conscious, but
he never is. There are four states of consciousness: sleeping, waking,
self-consciousness and objective consciousness. In objective con-
sciousness man can know truth; in self-consciousness he can know
truth about himself only; in waking he can know relative truth, and
in sleep — no truth at all.'

The lecturer stopped for a minute or so as though wanting his
audience to think it all over. 'The highest consciousness, which is
objective consciousness,' he went on, 'can only be obtained after
we have become self-conscious. But what happens between these
two states we do not know. The intermediate state is full of mystery.
We acquire objective consciousness only in mystical or occult ex-
periences and through certain inner illuminations.' Ouspensky pulled
out his watch and said: 'We can intensify our present state of what
I call "the sleeping state of consciousness" for no more than two
minutes at most. Look at the hand of your watch; try to think at the
same time of yourself watching the hand of the watch, which means
try to be conscious of yourself and your actions at the same time.
You cannot do it in an unbroken spell of time for more than two
minutes; and even when you do it, you are not self-conscious yet.
Your whole life is a state of automatic, mechanical actions, per-
formed in a state of sleep.' He stopped again and smiled apologetic-
ally. I had noticed that smile several times before: it seemed to be

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WAR AGAINST SLEEP

an apology for the statement he had made or was going to make
or perhaps for the inferiority of the listeners, implied in the state-
ment. The smile disappeared with the same suddenness with which
it had lit up the face a moment earlier, and Ouspensky sank back
into his Buddha-like state, in which he remained for a minute or
two.

Then he went on: 'Your "I" does not exist. What you really have
is a thousand different "IV, but not one of them is your real "I" '.
He then went on to explain that man has got five minds, not just one,
and that he is composed of five different functions which are con-
trolled by their respective minds. The five functions are: the intellect-
ual, the emotional, the moving, the instinctive and the sex functions.
The sex functions can be studied only after all the other functions
are known; for they are the last ones to appear in man's life and they
always depend on the other functions. The five functions should be
working with the entire required independence or the required
collaboration, but generally they work in a muddled way and without
the necessary control of their respective minds. Only through right
self-observation given by the right psychological system can we locate,
co-ordinate or detach them.

The lecture lasted exactly forty-five minutes. At its very end the
speaker turned to the audience —slowly lifting his eyes from the table
in front of him — and asked them to put questions to him. 'The
subject is very vast,* he said; 'I have only been able to suggest each
point. Each one of them requires many explanations and answers.'
Nobody uttered a word.

The silence was growing denser and denser, and eventually it
became like a threatening cloud. It was not the usual nervousness
that withholds inexperienced people from speaking in the presence
of utter strangers, and I suspected that no-one dared to formulate
a question in front of such a cruelly logical and matter-of-fact
lecturer. Most members of the audience were looking in the direc-
tion of the floor. This almost unbearable state lasted for about
five minutes, though they seemed like as many hours. The very
silence must have robbed the listeners of their courage. Suddenly
the man at the table said: 'Ask me about anything that was not
clear.'

The ice had been broken at last. Now a voice sounded through
the room. Someone wanted to know whether the act of artistic
creation puts the creator on a higher level of consciousness. 'Not

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THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

in the least/ came the answer from the table; 'as a composer, poet
or painter you are not different from any other man. Your work
is as mechanical as the shoemaker's or that of a bricklayer. It
is not you who does your work, but "it" does it. You are just
the machine who follows the commands of the "it". You are a
machine fitted out with certain wheels and screws and gadgets
which shoemaker and bricklayer don't happen to possess. But
don't imagine that being an artist makes you conscious. You
compose your sonatas in the same state in which the bricklayer
performs his functions.' Ouspensky finished his sentence, fell back
into the chair and looked into the air. There was something irrita-
ting and at the same time impressive in those sudden impersonal
endings to his answers.

A few more questions were asked; they were the questions of an
educated and well-prepared audience. An hour after the questions
had begun, Ouspensky said: 'You'll be informed in due time when
there is to be another lecture.' He got up and walked out without
looking at anyone or talking to any of the listeners. The audience
rose and dispersed.

I waited for a while and then I asked the lady who had taken
down my name at the entrance, when there would be another lecture.
She smiled charmingly and said in her melodious Russian accent:
* We never can tell. There can be a lecture next Monday, or Monday
after that. I will ring you up when there is to be another lecture.' I
gave her my telephone number and departed.

Not for a long time have I felt intellectually so stimulated as I
did on my way home through the unstimulating surroundings of
High Street, Kensington. I had little doubt that I had been in touch
with a system of a distinctly esoteric significance.

VII

I must warn the reader that this account of Ouspensky is any-
thing but complete. Much more could certainly be said about
him, though such an account does not yet exist. More important
than any portrait of Ouspensky the man is a picture of his teaching
or rather of the teaching which he represents — for there was
little doubt in my mind that Ouspensky represented one of those
systems of hidden knowledge that hardly ever exist in print and
are only transmitted by word of mouth. It discloses itself only

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WAR AGAINST SLEEP

through constant work, through personal discoveries step by step.
It can only be absorbed through a long process of questions and
answers, through a constant collaboration between the lecturer and
his listeners.

I spoke to Ouspensky on many occasions; I spoke to his listeners;
I visited the classes in which he delivered his lectures; I compared
his ideas with those of other teachers; I tried to translate them into
my very actions and to adapt my life to them. In spite of all this, my
picture of Ouspensky can only be partial.

Ouspensky had been popular for a number of years among
a certain section of people in London and Paris. Since most of
his listeners were not driven by curiosity or fashion but were
trying year by year to follow his ideas, there could be no doubt
that he had transformed the conceptions of a number of thinking
folk.

The lady through whose kindness I had been admitted to Ouspen-
sky's lectures was an old friend of his, and I begged her to arrange
for me to meet him. She did not seem particularly pleased, and said
that he might not want to receive me. 'He is rather elusive,' she
remarked; 'and he does not care to meet people unless he knows
that either he or his guest may derive some mental profit from the
meeting. He is sometimes even shy about too many people attending
his classes.' Nevertheless she asked Ouspensky to receive me, and
it was arranged that I should visit him at a house in Kent.

VIII

I expected to find what I imagined would be typically Russian
'atmosphere'. I visualized innumerable glasses of tea with lemon,
cigarettes and in general a disorderly milieu worthy of an English
drama about Russian emigres abroad. The place which I reached
after an hour's railway journey was, of course, entirely different. It
was an attractive house in a large garden, and the modern drawing-
room was furnished in an unobtrusive manner. The house belonged
to some friends of Ouspensky.

When Ouspensky entered I noticed the same reserve that I had
discerned during his lectures, and I did not realize until later on
that this reserve was the outcome of an inner command not to talk
and, in fact, not to do more than was essential. It was a self-discipline
not to indulge in all those superfluous little activities that, being

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neither necessary nor sincere, compel us to substitute them for non-
existent thoughts and feelings. Whatever Ouspensky had to say was
said in the shortest possible way, and was followed by silence. Those
sudden endings that had struck and even irritated me during his
lecture were nothing but the logical end of a sentence in which
everything had been said. Of course, it was difficult at first to carry
on a conversation with a man who made no concessions to our
habitual shortcomings or to social conventions. After a while I got
used to it, and even began to feel the salutary effect of such a self-
discipline.

In spite of Ouspensky's ascetic form of conversation I learned the
main outline of his life. He was born in Moscow in 1878. His grand-
father was a painter of religious pictures; both his parents were very
cultured people. The father was an officer in the army, but his main
hobbies were the arts and mathematics, especially the study of the
fourth dimension. Thanks to an uncanny memory, Ouspensky still
remembers himself at the age of two. Certain characteristics in him
were determined at the age of six through reading two of the classics
of Russian literature: Lermontoff's Hero of Our Time and Turgen-
yeff's A Sportsman's Sketches. Soon afterwards he began to develop
a strong taste for poetry and painting which he considers even to-day
the highest forms of art. At twelve he developed an interest in natural
sciences. New discoveries and new interests seemed to come to him
earlier than they do to most boys — a characteristic which he had in
common with Steiner. When at the age of thirteen Ouspensky be-
came interested in dreams, he turned immediately to the study of
psychology; at sixteen he discovered for himself Nietzsche; at
eighteen he began to travel and to write; and before he was twenty
he had undertaken a serious study of science, soon coming, through
his preoccupation with the natural sciences, to believe in the existence
of hidden knowledge.

O.: *I am only interested in a scientific approach to the problems
surrounding us. Mysticism, occultism and the other supernatural
movements interest me little. But I have felt that there must exist
some deeper knowledge of our world than the one we are taught at
our universities. I studied science after science; biology, mathe-
matics and psychology, and I gathered as much of existing scientific
knowledge as I could. I studied at a number of universities both in
Russia and abroad, but after having acquainted myself with each
science in turn I realized that I was always brought against a blank

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wall, and that I could go no further. This limitation in the exact
sciences filled me eventually with a deep mistrust of all academical
knowledge. Though I had absorbed a great deal of this knowledge I
could value it only up to a point. In fact I hated official academical
science to such an extent that I made up my mind never to pass an
examination or to take a degree.'

R. L.: 'But your books show that most of your investigations are
based on a wide scientific knowledge. As a matter of fact, I was
assured by friends who are scientists themselves that some of your
mathematical and neo-physical discoveries are of paramount im-
portance.*

O.: 'But they were not the outcome of the knowledge gained a
universities. That knowledge formed only a part of the necessary
material, but it did not bring me nearer truth. It always remained
within its own special circle. True knowledge should never be limited
to itself but should allow you to establish a connection with any
other branch of knowledge. Though I was sceptical of scientific
knowledge of the academical kind, I thought at the same time that
there could be no new science in the world, and that everything must
have been fixed somewhere, sometime.'

R. L.: 'What exactly gave you the impulse to search for truth in
those regions of human thought that official science does not take
quite seriously?'

O.: 'In a way it was theosophy. In 1907 I came across theosophy,
or rather the earlier theosophical books which were prohibited in
Russia. The theosophists had not begun yet to repeat themselves,
and they were still in contact with hidden truth. I am referring to
books written before the beginning of this century.'

R. L.: 'Did you meet the theosophical leaders?'

O.: 'Yes, I went to Adyar in India, to the headquarters of the
Theosophical Society, and spent some six weeks there, in contact
with Annie Besant and several other leaders. Most theosophical
books since then are nothing but a rehash of truths established by
Mme. Blavatsky, Col. Olcott and the early writings of Annie Besant
and Leadbeater. Later on I found out for myself that most esoteric
knowledge is transmitted from century to century by word of mouth.
I went to the Near East, I studied occult literature, I made all kinds
of psychological experiments. I published several books, I lectured.
In 1913 I went to Egypt, Ceylon and India, and did not return till
after the beginning of the war, though I soon realized that to find

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what I was seeking I should have had to stay in the East much longer.
Eventually in 1915 and, so to speak, under my very nose, I met a
system which contained more essential knowledge than any I had
yet encountered. Everything that I had been hunting for in the East,
in occult literature, in secret doctrines, was in that system which I
found in Moscow among a small group of people, instructed by a
certain Gurdjieff.'

R. L.: 'Do you mean the enigmatic Gurdjieff from Fontainebleau,
whose name I constantly come across without however being able
to locate or indeed to verify him?'

(X: 'I don't think there can be two Gurdjieffs. Many important
truths, unknown to any other system, were explained through the
system propagated by Gurdjieff — for of course it was not Gurdjieff 's
own discovery but an esoteric system which had been entrusted to
him by others. Gurdjieff lectured in Moscow, and, though I was
living at the time in Petersburg, I soon decided to join him. When
the Russian revolution came, I had no illusions about it, but decided
at once to leave the country and to await the end of the war in some
neutral place with the intention, when the war was over, of con-
tinuing my work in England.'

R. L.: 'Had you lived in England before?'

O.: 'No, but on my way back from India I had stayed in England
while making preparations for the publication of some of my books.
My connections with Gurdjieff made it impossible for me to leave
Russia in 1917. He went to the Caucasus, and after a time several
members of his classes, myself amongst them, joined him there,
where we stayed for over two years. During 1918, however, I had
begun to feel somehow out of touch with Gurdjieff. It seemed to me
as though he were changing, but whatever the cause I could no longer
understand him, and it appeared to me that he had drifted away from
his original idea. Although I tried to concentrate on separating the
system from his personality, and by keeping the two apart to go on
working with Gurdjieff, it proved impossible, and eventually I had
to leave him. He went to Tiflis, and I remained where I was, at
Essentuki. I was liberated from the Bolsheviks by the Whites in
1919, and soon afterwards I left for Constantinople.'

R. L.: 'Did you ever come across Gurdjieff again?'

O.: 'Yes, during my lectures in Constantinople. I even tried to
resume our work in common, but it was impossible. In 1921 I went
to England and began to lecture there to people who were interested

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in such ideas as those with which I was concerned, and when Gurd-
jieff visited London I tried to help him — I even kept in close touch
with him and with his work when he moved to France, and visited
him there on many occasions. Early in 1924, however, I realized
finally that we could not work together, and so I broke away from
him entirely, and I haven't seen him since.'

R. L.: 'Do you think there still exist definite groups possessing
esoteric knowledge?'

O.: 'There are several such esoteric groups in the East and a few
even in the West. They are the only ones that can transmit higher
understanding. You find higher knowledge of paramount importance
in Christianity, though perhaps not in orthodox Church Christianity.
You find esoteric knowledge in the Gospels, but hardly anyone knows
how to read them. Does anyone know the real meaning of the Lord's
Prayer? I doubt it. But the Lord's Prayer contains some of the deep-
est esoteric knowledge.'

R. L.: 'Do you believe in God?'

O.: 'I don't believe in anything. I believe only in the possi-
bility of acquiring more and higher knowledge. I take nothing for
granted — neither God nor destiny nor faith. What we usually
call faith is nothing but a bundle of automatic emotional reactions,
yet I know that besides such imaginary faith there is also real
faith.'

R. L.: 'Do you believe in the existence of an individual "I" in
each one of us?'

O.: 'I should myself have put that question rather differently. All
I can say is that our "I" is for us practically non-existent at present,
because we don't know it. Something we don't know of cannot exist
for us — and so this becomes a purely philosophical and therefore
useless question. We are thousands of "IV, all of which are
imaginary. Our real "I" we can only discover through persistent
effort.'

R. L.: * Knowledge, I presume, is for you both the apex and the
axis of all human existence?'

O.: 'Of course. The more we know about ourselves, the more we
discover about other things. Things vary in accordance with our
knowledge. They are just as much or as little as we know about them.
They are neither material nor spiritual nor anything else. They are
just what we know about them, their reality being merely the ex-
pression of our own understanding.'

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R. L.: c What is your attitude towards miracles?'

O.: 'They cannot happen unconsciously. Even the Transfiguration
is not a magical but a mechanical happening. We can achieve miracles
only with full consciousness.'

R. L.: 'What of magical language, of Eastern mantras, of invo-
cations of Western religions, magical formulae, of mediaeval brother-
hoods such as that of the Rosicrucians?'

O.: 'There is magical language: but only for people who know
how to read it. Language, no matter how magical it may be, can
have no influence over people who do not know. What we generally
believe to be the magical power of language is simply its appeal to
the emotions.'

R. L.: 'So you don't believe in any mechanical transmission of
knowledge — through magic formulae, for instance?*

O.: 'I don't. Only conscious effort can achieve anything. Nothing
can grow through the mechanical work of copying.'

R. L.: 'You don't believe in any mental exercises either, I take
it?'

O.: 'All Jesuitical, Rosicrucian and similar exercises are useless
for us. Exercises fix our present state of sleep so strongly that it will
be only more difficult to overcome it. They can be compared to
fixing a photograph before it has been developed. What is the good
of fixing yourself before you have been developed? Fixation may be
all right after you have developed certain qualities — not before.'

During the following months I was regularly admitted to Ous-
pensky's lectures. His audience was not the sentimental, essentially
self-centred and lazy crowd which was ready enough to support so
many spiritual movements at that time; there was none of the happy-
go-lucky optimism of cheapened religiosity, or of the blind devotion
with which we meet in the case of so many teachers and their
disciples. The very method of Ouspensky forced his listeners
to think for themselves. At times it was almost painful to watch
how they seemed to concentrate on each of his pronouncements,
and how hard they were trying to think out certain problems for
themselves.

Generally, Ouspensky would lecture for five or ten minutes, and
then he would suddenly stop and say: 'Think about what I have just

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WAR AGAINST SLEEP

said, and ask me questions about it. We must discuss it before I can
go on.' Such a method compelled active collaboration on the part
of his pupils. At the beginning there was always something rather
frightening in the breathless pause before the first question was asked.
Fear that a question might be irrelevant to what had been said during
the lecture, or that it might disclose intellectual curiosity alone,
prevailed even towards the end of a session. Mere literary or
philosophical questions were not welcome, and the effect of such a
question was invariably devastating. Ouspensky was never rude,
nor even ironical — but he was cruelly matter-of-fact, and would
not tolerate questions that did not betray an honest desire to know
more.

Someone would ask, after Ouspensky had discussed the various
states of consciousness: 'Is Buddha the seventh state of conscious-
ness?'

Ouspensky, without even looking up to see who had asked the
unfortunate question, would only answer: 'I don't know.' He
then remained silent, and you felt that in his thoughts he
probably continued, 'and I don't care'. There was nothing
to be done, and the person who had put the question had to
consider the answer satisfactory and could only try to hide the
sudden blush that was covering her face — for women were the chief
offenders in this way.

After Ouspensky had explained that a genius is not a being with a
higher consciousness, but just a more perfect piece of machinery
than ordinary people are, someone asked: 'Don't you think that a
man like Beethoven was more than a piece of machinery?'

Ouspensky answered to this: 'I don't ; and I am not interested in it,
because I am only interested in my own or perhaps your state — that's
why we are here.'

He forced his listeners to train their thoughts to keep to what was
real, what was directly connected with the teaching that was given
them. If someone tried to introduce a word that had a meaning in
another psychological system, but was not used by Ouspensky he
would not admit any compromise. Once a listener asked: * Should
we meditate?'

Ouspensky answered: 'I don't understand.'

'Should we not meditate?' repeated a more faltering voice.

4 Meditation is a word that you picked up somewhere,' came the
answer; 'you should know by now that it has no meaning whatever
M 177

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in the system that I am representing. So please try to refrain from
using unnecessary words. We have got our own terminology, which
is quite adequate to our purpose. If I should find that we need new
words, I will introduce them myself/ All this was said without the
slightest impatience or offence, very calmly and without any sugges-
tion of a reprimand.

No matter what the value of Ouspensky's system, there can be no
doubt that his very sternness was of the greatest value. People who
found it hard to think were forced to keep their thoughts within a
definite circle, concentrating on the knowledge contained within
that particular circle so as to absorb it in such a way as to create
their own thoughts out of that circle.

Ouspensky offers little to the imagination; but very much to one's
power of thought; and there are no miracles, dramatic conversions,
emotional confessions or tours de force in his method. He is never
satisfied with one particular discovery but tries to go deeper and
deeper. He takes nothing for granted and induces his listeners to
establish every new fact for themselves. There is no evasiveness in
his teaching or in his answers, and he is almost unattractively simple
and sober in his pronouncements.

The whole of Ouspensky's system rests on the acknowledgement
of the truth that man is not conscious but asleep. Most of us do not
even know that we are asleep. We can only begin to wake up if we
realize and admit that we function in a dream, automatically. We
can only wake up through self-observation. Self-observation can
only be produced through constant effort. One of the main barriers
preventing us from waking up is our imagination,1 which intrudes
constantly into our thought. Imagination runs away with our thoughts
and leads a thoroughly destructive existence within us. We are only
rarely able to think beyond a certain point, and this point is generally
very soon reached. Our thoughts are then taken over by our imagina-
tion, which runs amuck with them, without direction, aim or control.
We can only stop the wasteful chase of our imagination by being

1 The word 'imagination' in Ouspensky's terminology does not express creative
imagination responsible for most scientific, literary, artistic or, in fact, any crea-
tive work. Such an imagination he calls by different names, according to the
particular case. He means, by imagination, uncontrolled imaginary ponderings
or daydreams, automatic and without effort.

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WAR AGAINST SLEEP

attentive. The moment we are attentive the activities of our im-
agination stop, and thought can come into action. Imagination is a
very violent destructor of energy; mental effort on the other hand
stores up energy. We waste a lot of energy by the wrong use of our
various centres. We allow our five centres to become mixed up, and
one to do the work of another.

Good or bad can only exist if there is an aim. Without aim they
are non-existent, and we merely accept conventional versions of
them, created in the past by people who were as much asleep as
ourselves. Reality can only be known in a state of waking. Real
knowledge is creative knowledge. Without instruction, coming from
people in possession of such a knowledge, progress is almost im-
possible.

Our ultimate goal is an objective consciousness in which all our
former inner limitations cease to exist. In such a consciousness there
are no secrets or mysteries. But we can never reach such a high level
through increase of our knowledge alone. Knowledge and being
must be perfected together. We must aim at growing into a har-
monious whole in which bodily, emotional and mental functions
are alike developed; where they perform all their duties; where
they can collaborate at will; where, in short, both the man and
his understanding function to perfection.

Though from the ordinary man's point of view the psychological
part was perhaps the most important, it formed only a fraction of
Ouspensky's system, which embraced an entire cosmology, and
necessarily dealt with such different subjects as mathematics,
physics, sex, religion, the arts. But those branches required an
even more direct study under him than the psychological part of
his system.

As in most esoteric doctrines, the school idea plays a predominant
part in Ouspensky's system. Certain things can, according to him,
not be taught or learned from books or through individual study but
require a school — a group of people who will work together under
special guidance, evolving the same terminology, beginning to under-
stand one another. Since times immemorial, from the ancient
mysteries to the various mediaeval schools or monastic brotherhoods,
the school method has always been considered as indispensable for

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the propagation of hidden knowledge. No man working by himself
can obtain certain results, since these can evolve only through dis-
cussions between teacher and pupils. The truths contained in an
esoteric doctrine cannot be realized as long as there is no school.

Never before have I met anyone working more directly and more
logically to help people to conquer the phantoms of sleep and to
lead them into consciousness.

180

CHAPTER VI
HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

Gurdjieff

The personality and the life of Gurdjieff are both shrouded in
mystery. He has said or written little of his past, and is in-
different as to the accuracy or otherwise of the statements regarding
his personality; but, though he considers that all that matters is his
teaching, the reader may find some account of the many vicissitudes
of his life equally interesting.

Even Gurdjieff 's main collaborators, who worked with him for a
number of years, were unable to testify as to the truth of some of the
facts. They derived most of their knowledge from Gurdjieff 's mother
and brother, whose reports had to bridge the gaps between Gurdjieff 's
own haphazard utterances. Even his Greek nationality is questioned
by some people: one of his pupils told me that his master was an
Armenian, while the majority of his pupils used formerly to call him,
in the Russian fashion, by the patronymic George Ivanovitch. He is
supposed to have been born in Alexandropol in the late 'seventies;
but certain facts which I discovered during my investigations seemed
to point to his having been born earlier. His father appears to have
been a merchant; he himself had a rather superficial elementary edu-
cation, and his knowledge was acquired almost entirely in later years.
At one period in his life he was a carpet dealer, and for a number of
years he travelled extensively in the Near East and in central Asia. He
is reluctant to talk about those early adventures, and we can only
guess at most of them.

A few years before the world war Gurdjieff suddenly appeared in
Moscow. His lectures attracted considerable interest in certain
intellectual circles. The background of these essays in education
is clarified by some autobiographical material which he introduced
into a later publication. It appears that he had been in contact with
a number of people who devoted their time to the study of what
Gurdjieff called 'theosophism', 'occultism', or 'spiritualism', and
had eventually become an expert among them. After some years he

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abandoned these * workshops', as he called them, 'for the perfection
of psychopathism', and, 'with enormous and almost superhuman
effort and heavy expenditure', organized in 'different cities three
small groups of people of varying types'. He founded his groups in
Russia, 'which at that time was peaceful, rich and quiet'. 'Arriving
at this final decision', he began at once 'to liquidate current affairs,
which were dispersed over different countries in Asia', and to collect
together all the wealth which he had amassed.

The Russian Revolution brought an end to his groups. He left
Moscow for Tiflis, whence he proceeded later to Constantinople. A
certain number of his pupils followed him, and in 1920 he suddenly
appeared in Berlin, which was at the time most promising ground
for any unusual movement. A year or so later Gurdjieff moved on to
Paris, and once or twice he visited London. His teaching, his strange
power over a number of people and the help of various friends en-
abled him to collect enough money to acquire the CMteau du Prieure,
a fourteenth-century property at Fontainebleau, and establish a new
school there.

The name of the new school was ' Institute for Man's Harmonious
Development', and most of Gurdjieff's pupils at that time were
Russian or English. The strong emotional appeal of his romantic
personality attracted the Russians; while for his Anglo-Saxon
followers it was the Rabelaisian exuberance of his whole personality
and the mystery attached to him that provided much of the outward
fascination.

The pupils generally came to live at the Chateau, and for the first
week or two they would be treated as guests. Afterwards they had
to share all the work, which included besides the ordinary house-
work such manual labours as gardening, felling trees, or chopping
wood. Gurdjieff held very strong views on the necessity of an un-
conventional way of living and of activities likely to decrease old
habits and automatic mechanical functions of his pupils. While per-
forming such work as gardening, or chopping wood, his pupils were
obliged to employ those of the muscular functions that had not yet
been deadened by conventional use. Manual work revealed to them
also a number of hitherto unknown things about themselves.

Though most of the pupils believed in Gurdjieff with the fervour
of true discipleship, there were often quarrels and violent arguments,
and those disturbances ran like a dark thread through the whole
history of the PrieurS. Some of the pupils would at times complain

182

GURDJIEFF

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

that they could no longer support Gurdjieff 's violent temper, his
apparent greed for money or the extravagance of his private life. On
occasions these feelings so outweighed their admiration for him that
they felt constrained to leave the Chateau indignantly. I have been
assured that the quarrels were not due to a lack of self-control, but
formed part of Gurdjieff 's tactics. By rousing their anger he induced
people to forget their self-discipline and thus reveal to him their real
emotions. Possibly this was not the only reason for Gurdjieff's dis-
plays of temper; when he considered that a pupil was failing to make
sufficient progress under his guidance, instead of asking him to
leave the place, Gurdjieff preferred to provoke such storms as would
force him to depart.

When asked what he was aiming at, Gurdjieff would answer:
* At developing people into human beings'. To achieve this, Gurdjieff
used the picturesque expressions of a most unconventional French
or an even less conventional English, a deliberately engaging in-
tonation of his voice and the most varied gestures.

When asked what he meant by developing people into human
beings, Gurdjieff would generally add that he wanted to make them
become more conscious of reality. Though Gurdjieff, unlike Ous-
pensky, generally followed a system of evasiveness in answering the
questions of his pupils, he gives us in his book some glimpses of his
leading ideas. There he says that 'the modern man does not think,
but something thinks for him; he does not act, but something acts
through him; he does not achieve, but something is achieved through
him.' This is, of course, the belief of most teachers. The root of all
true religious endeavour, too, is the wish to get away from the mis-
leading fancies painted by our imagination and to see that truth the
very centre of which is God.

Gurdjieff's first rule for facing reality demanded that we should
break away from the automatic, habitual manner of living common
to people in general. According to Gurdjieff, while our physical
centre is fully developed, the growth of the emotional centre has
only just reached the stage of adolescence, while the mental centre
has not developed beyond the stage of infancy. We ought to be able
to control each one of the three by any of the other two centres.
Gurdjieff considers that most of the characteristics commonly re-
garded as virtues are in truth vices. In his opinion man's fundamental

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sins are vanity and self-conceit, which are mainly the results of a
wrong education. 'I categorically affirm', he says, 'that the happiness
and self-consciousness, which should be in real man . . . depend in
most cases exclusively on the absence in us of the feeling of "vanity".'
There are two guiding principles for the attainment of that happiness:
(1) 'To be patient towards every living creature', and (2) 'not to
attempt by the use of any power of influence we possess to alter the
consequences of the evil deeds of our neighbours'.

One of Gurdjieff 's main methods is a queer system of dances, the
aim of which is not to give the dancer a chance to express his sub-
jective emotions, but to teach him the collaboration of his three
different centres through 'objective' exercises. Every movement,
pace and rhythm is minutely prescribed. Each limb has to be trained
in a way that permits it to make independent movements, not at all
co-ordinated with those of the other limbs.

We all know that our muscles act and react in certain ways be-
cause they have always been used to making the same kind of move-
ment. This does not mean that such movements necessarily and
always fulfil the real 'ambition' of the muscle. To illustrate this
point, let us consider for a moment the difference between our own
and the Eastern way of sitting. The Eastern fashion of properly
crossed legs and straight spine is much more restful than that of
sitting on chairs with our legs dangling down and with the weight of
the body wrongly distributed. One can sit in that posture for hours
without being interrupted by a restless body or aching limbs and
one rests in it much better than by lying down on a bed. And yet
hardly any of us can do it. Why? Because our muscles act in automatic
fashion.

Gurdjieff's dances were meant to break the muscular conventions
of the dancers. By creating independent movements instead, he
endeavoured to attack the mental and emotional conventions of his
pupils as well.

Gurdjieff himself wrote the scenario and the music of the dances.
Some of the music was based on dervish dances, of which he
seemed to possess a very thorough knowledge. He has written
thousands of compositions, most of which served as music for
the dances.

When in 1924 Gurdjieff took a group of his pupils to the United
States, the performances of 'objective dances' roused a certain
interest. Many people were attracted by their novelty, for these

184

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

dances had nothing in common with the methods of Dalcroze,
Rudolf Steiner, Isadora Duncan, or any of the newer reformers.

The British author, Mr. Llewelyn Powys, described the visit of
Gurdjieff to New York and the effect of his dances in a book, The
Verdict of Bridlegoose (1927), in which he writes: 'The famous
prophet and magician Gurdjieff appeared in New York accompanied
by Mr. Orage, who was acting for him as a kind of Saint Paul. ... I
had an opportunity of observing Gurdjieff while he stood smoking

not far from me in the vestibule His general appearance made one

think of a riding master, though there was something about his
presence that affected one's nerves in a strange way. Especially
did one feel this when his pupils came on to the stage, to perform
like a hutchful of hypnotized rabbits under the gaze of a master
conjurer.'

I heard very similiar opinions from many different sources. People
told me that the dancers looked like frightened mice; but they added
that it was useless to judge the dances themselves by common
aesthetic standards. And yet I came across people who had admired
them even for their aesthetic beauty, though there were none of the
usual attractions of stage presentation. The dancers wore simple
tunics and trousers. One of them told me that the impression of
being hypnotized came from the intense concentration that each
performance required. Not only had their bodies to act: each one of
their three centres had to be controlled consciously, and the required
co-ordination of the three centres could only be achieved by the
greatest effort of concentration.

Soon after his return from America Gurdjieff had a serious motor
accident at Fontainebleau, and remained an invalid for many months.
* On account of my motor accident . . . which brought me near to
death,' Gurdjieff says, 'I was forced to liquidate everything . . . that
had been created by me with such unimagined efforts.' Regular work
at the Institute had to be given up. Though occasionally pupils would
still come to stay at the Chateau, Gurdjieff's main educational
activities at Prieur6 belonged to the past. But his teaching was
spreading through America, where his main collaborator, the
English writer, Mr. Alfred Orage, was holding special classes. Gurd-
jieff began to visit America regularly almost every year, and after
1930 he made New York his headquarters.

185

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

III

It was Gurdjieff's personality rather than his doctrine that so
strongly affected many people in France, England and America.
One of his pupils said to me one day: 'I imagine that Rasputin must
have been like Gurdjieff; mysterious, domineering, attractive and
frightening at the same time; full of an over-abundant vitality and of
strange knowledge, inaccessible to other men.' Some people tried to
explain away Gurdjieff as a charlatan and hypnotist. His hypnotic
powers were never disputed, yet all his external methods constituted
but an insignificant part of his far wider knowledge. It was not merely
emotional women and certain types of semi-intellectual men who
came under the spell of Gurdjieff. Men and women with pronounced
critical faculties and a marked intelligence became his pupils. Many
of them parted ways with him, but they all admitted that Gurdjieff
was one of the real spiritual experiences in their lives. Katherine
Mansfield was one of his followers, and she believed deeply in
Gurdjieff, and even hoped that under his influence she might
be able to conquer the disease that was raging within her. She
actually went to work under Gurdjieff's directions at Fontainebleau,
though too late to regain her health, for she died there after a few
months.

A great number of men and women well known in the intellectual
world came under the spell, and D. H. Lawrence apparently gave
much thought to Gurdjieff, and was at one time on the point of
entering his circle. Lawrence heard much about him from his Ameri-
can friend, Mrs. Mabel Dodge. He was extremely interested in
Gurdjieff's ideas, and referred to him in many of his letters. But Mrs.
Dodge's enthusiasm seems to have aroused his suspicions, and he
wrote to her in April 1926: *My I, my fourth centre, will look after
me better than I could ever look after it. Which is all I feel about
Gurdjieff. . . .' A month later he wrote from Florence: 'As for Gurd-
jieff and Orage and the awakening of various centres and the ultimate
I and all that — to tell you the truth, plainly, I don't know . . . there
is no way mapped out, and never will be. . . .' Eventually, when his
friend pressed him to go and visit Gurdjieff, Lawrence became
impatient, and wrote: 'I don't think that I want to go and see
Gurdjieff. You can't imagine how little interest I have in those
modes of salvation. ... I don't like the Gurdjieffs and the Orages
and the other little thunderstorms.'

186

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

Mr. A. R. Orage, whom Lawrence mentioned in the last letter was
Gurdjieff 's chief assistant and lecturer. He had great intelligence and
an attractive personality, and it was mainly due to him that Gurdjieff 's
ideas became so popular in America. A philosopher and writer by
profession, he was a man of erudition. Before the war he owned the
review New Age, and was the author of various highly acclaimed
philosophical, economical and critical books.

I had for long been anxious to meet Gurdjieff, and at last, when I
was in New York, it was arranged that I should see him. I asked Mr.
Orage to give me an introduction, but, as at the time the two men
were barely on speaking terms, Orage considered that his introduction
would only shut Gurdjieff's door against me. Eventually, however, I
was given a letter of introduction to a very old friend of Gurdjieff's in
New York, who was only too willing to arrange the interview, and
who asked me to ring him up three days later to find out the exact
date of the meeting. When I rang him up on the appointed morning
he advised me to get into touch with Mr. Gurdjieff's secretary.

I asked him whether I should mention his name. 'Oh no,' came
the answer, 'that would not be a recommendation. But you might say
that a Mr. L. advised you.'

'But I don't know Mr. L.*, I replied.

'Then just say that you had been told that Mr. L. was going to
talk to Mr. Gurdjieff about you, and to arrange for your interview.'

I rang up the secretary. She knew nothing at all about a con-
versation between Mr. L. and Mr. Gurdjieff; but she said that if I
wrote a letter, giving all the reasons for my proposed visit and stating
in detail who I was, she would take it to Mr. Gurdjieff. I wrote the
letter and two days later the secretary rang me up: Mr. Gurdjieff
would see me at 2.30 p.m in his rooms, numbers 217 and 218 at his
hotel.

Before my interview I had lunch with a distinguished American
writer who was supposed to have known Gurdjieff for many years,
and I asked him about Gurdjieff. 'I have never actually spoken to
him,' he said; 'but I often went to his classes and to his dances. I
must confess that he is an enigma to me.'

'Do you think it is true that he sometimes uses his strange faculties
for other than spiritual purposes?'

187

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

'It would be unfair to affirm this. All the unorthodox things we
hear about him may be parts of a system of deep spiritual significance.
You must not forget that Mme. Blavatsky, too, often tried to obtain
genuine reactions from her pupils by shocking and antagonizing
them. Gurdjieff may perhaps be doing something of the sort. There
was a time when Orage and others of Gurdjieff 's followers tried to
induce me to join them and to become one of GurdjiefFs assistants.
I refused persistently for a number of years, and I must say I am glad
that I was never intimately associated with them.'

'Is it true that Gurdjieff has changed thoroughly since his motor
accident?'

' He certainly seems to have done so. He was almost dead for a very
long time, and it may be that such a deep experience has transformed
him. As you may have heard, his first book came out quite recently.
It surprised me, for it showed me a new, more altruistic, less mater-
ially minded Gurdjieff.'

'Where can one get this book?'

'I fear nowhere. It has been printed privately, and Gurdjieff sends
it only to those he considers worthy of being instructed by him. He
happened to send me a copy, but its style is so atrocious that I had
the greatest difficulty in getting through it.'

'Have you seen him recently?'

'Yes, at a reception last spring. I must tell you of an interesting
incident which occurred that day. A friend of mine, who is one of our
great novelists, was sitting at my table. I pointed to a table at which
Gurdjieff was sitting, and asked her whether she knew him. "No,
who is he?" she replied, looking across. Gurdjieff caught her eye, and
we saw distinctly that he suddenly began to inhale and to exhale in a
particular way. I am too old a hand at such tricks not to have known
that Gurdjieff was employing one of the methods he must have
learned in the East. A few moments later I noticed that my friend
was turning pale; she seemed to be on the verge of fainting. And
yet she is anything but highly strung. I was very much surprised to
see her in that strange condition, but she recovered after a few mo-
ments. I asked her what the matter was. "That man is uncanny",
she whispered. "Something awful happened", she continued, but
began after a moment to laugh in her broad natural way. "I ought to
be ashamed, nevertheless I'll tell you what happened. I looked at
your 'friend' a moment ago, and he caught my eye. He looked at me
in such a peculiar way that within a second or so I suddenly felt as

188

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

though I had been struck right through my sexual centre. It was
beastly!'" My host stopped for a second, and added smilingly: 'You
had better be careful. The man you are going to see can certainly
make use of strange powers: he had not learned them in Tibet for
nothing.'

'I so often hear about his experiences in Tibet,' I replied: 'but I am
somewhat suspicious of those Tibetan tales. Every other messiah,
from Mme. Blavatsky onwards, claims to have gathered knowledge
•n the mountains of Tibet. How do you know that Gurdjieff has
actually ever been there?'

' I happen to possess first-hand proofs. Some years ago there was a
luncheon in New York, given, if I remember aright, for Gurdjieff. A
number of distinguished men had been invited, among others the
writer, Achmed Abdullah, who told me that he had never seen
Gurdjieflf before, but that he was very much looking forward to
meeting this unusual Armenian. When Gurdjieff entered the room
Achmed Abdullah turned to me and whispered: "I have met that
man before. Do you know who he really is? Before the war he was in
Lhassa as an agent of the Russian Secret Service. I was in Lhassa at
the same time, and in a way we worked against each other." So, you
see, it is quite true that Gurdjieff had been at the very fountain of
esoteric knowledge. Some people say he was in Lhassa as a Secret
Service agent, in order to disguise the real purpose of his visit, which
was to learn the supernatural methods of the Lamas. Other people
maintain that his esoteric studies were only a pretext behind which
he could hide his political activities. But who can tell?'

Gurdjieff lived in one of the smaller hotels in 57th Street. When
the reception clerk at the hotel desk telephoned up to announce my
visit, I was told to go 'right up' to number 217. I knocked at the
door, and entered a small darkish room. A tall young man with a
cigarette in his mouth was standing at the door to receive me. ' How
do you do', he said; 'he will be with you in a moment; please sit
down.' He looked presentable and cultured; but I have hardly ever
seen a pair of more frightened eyes. I admit that it was not difficult
to allow one's imagination to detect features that may not have
existed in reality. Yet I had come to this meeting determined not
to dramatize it, but to observe as keenly as possible and to gather

189

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

firsthand knowledge. The story of Gurdjieff was dramatic enough
as it stood. There could be no doubt about the expression on the
young man's face. He was very pale, his eyes glowed feverishly, and
he gave me the impression of someone who had just seen a ghost.
He smoked his cigarette nervously, with his eyes focused all the
time on the adjoining room. There was no door between the two
rooms, and I could discern in the far one a bed and some luggage.
The reception room in which we were sitting was, in comparison
with those of most hotels of the district, shabbily furnished. Several
cheap black suitcases were lying on the floor in front of an empty
fireplace. I heard someone opening the door from the passage to the
bedroom, and a moment later Gurdjieff joined us.

'How do you do', he said in very bad English and with a strong
oriental accent. I was particularly struck by the way he pronounced
the 'h'. It was not the light English 'h', but the deep, guttural 'ch'
of some German words, or rather the 'chr' of Eastern languages.
Gurdjieff was wearing a waistcoat half unbuttoned, no coat, dark
trousers and bedroom slippers. You could see the braces under his
waistcoat.

'Excuse this costume', he said; *I have only just finished lunch.'
He then pointed at me and said to the young man: 'This Englishman
very precise.' He obviously meant punctual. 'He really English', he
went on, without allowing me to contradict; 'not like you all, half-
Turks, half-Turks.* He turned towards me: 'Americans are not
English, for me they are only half English and half, half — he was
trying to remember the word — 'half Turkish.' He laughed and con-
tinued instantly, 'You excuse my English. It awfully bad. I speaking
my own English, you know — not modern, but pre-Shakespearian
English. It awfully bad, but my friends understand. And I under-
stand everything in real, modern English, so you go and speak. This
man' — he pointed to his pupil — 'will translate my pre-Shakespearian
English for you. He knows.'

*Oh, it is perfectly clear to me, Mr. Gurdjieff,' I tried to contra-
dict; 'I understand everything you say.'

'Then have a cigarette.'

'Thanks, I am afraid I don't smoke.'

'Oh, not smoke one of those Americans! No, I give you wonderful
cigarettes, real cigarettes, Turkish and Russian. Say what?' He placed
a large box of Russian cigarettes in front of me.

'Thanks all the same,' I said; 'but I really do not smoke.'

190

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

'Come, come, they good9prima9 prima. If not smoke these, I can give
you . . . what calls itself non-smoking cigarettes. What call you?' he
turned to the young man who explained: * Mr. Gurdjieff keeps special
cigarettes for non-smokers, perhaps you would care to take one.'

I was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable, but I tried to treat
the whole matter as a kind of a joke, and I said light-heartedly:
'Thanks awfully, I am sure I should be sick straight away if I smoked
any of your cigarettes; and no-one here would enjoy that. I have
never smoked in my life', I lied.

I sat down on a little sofa not far from Gurdjieff, who was reclining
comfortably in a big chair. The young man had remained all through
our conversation on his chair near the fireplace. He kept on glancing
nervously towards Gurdjieff, and it was impossible to imagine that
hej could ever laugh or smile. Terror seemed the only expression
of which his face was capable — or was it some hysterical form of
expectation?

Gurdjieff 's face was manifestly Levantine. The skin was darkish;
the twisted moustache was black, though distinctly greying; the eyes
were very black and vivid. But the most Levantine feature of his face
was the mouth: it never remained quite shut and it exposed the teeth,
one or two of which had been darkened as though by constant
smoking. He was quite bald and slightly stout; yet you could see
that he had been good-looking in his earlier days, and it was obvious
that women must have been very susceptible to this virile Levantine
type of man.

He was very obliging and smiled constantly, as though trying to
show me his most attractive side. Nevertheless I began to feel very
queer. I am not easily influenced by 'telepathic' enticement, and am
not at all what is called a 'good medium'; no doctor or hypnotist
has ever succeeded in hypnotizing me. On this particular occasion I
was very much on my guard and prepared to counteract any possible
psychic influence. And yet I was beginning to feel a distinct weakness
in the lower parts of my body, from the navel downwards, and mainly
in the legs. This feeling grew steadily every second. After about
twenty or thirty seconds it became so strong that I knew I should
hardly be able to get up and walk out of the room.

I had been specially careful not to look at Gurdjieff and not to
allow him to look into my eyes. I had avoided his eyes for at least
two minutes. I had turned all the time towards the young man, to
whom I had said: 'I shall talk to you, and perhaps you will be so

191

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

kind as to translate my words to Mr. Gurdjieff in case he does not
understand me.' The young man had agreed, and I remained facing
him, with Gurdjieff on my right. And yet the feeling of physical
weakness pervaded me more and more.

I was intensely awake and conscious of what was going on within
me, and I was observing this fascinating new experience with the
keenest awareness. The feeling inside my stomach was one of acute
nervousness, amounting almost to physical pain and fear. This
weakness did not upset me above the navel: it was limited to the
stomach and legs. My legs were suffering from the sensation similar
to that which people experience before a trial at court, an examina-
tion, or a visit to the dentist. I was sure that if I tried to get up my
legs would sag under me and I should fall to the floor.

Though I had not the slightest doubt that my queer state had been
produced by Gurdjieff's influence, I was perfectly composed and
determined to get out of it. I concentrated more and more on my
conversation with the young man, and slowly the feeling inside
seemed to melt away, and I began to feel normal again. After a
couple of minutes I had definitely left Gurdjieff's 'magic circle'.

There are several explanations of my queer experience. It might
have been a form of hypnosis or even auto-hypnosis which, for
certain reasons, could affect only the lower half of my body without
touching the brain and the emotional centre. But I doubt if it was
either. It may have been a form of electric emanation such as Ras-
putin is said to have possessed in a high degree. This form of radia-
tion seems to act even if its owner is hardly conscious of it, and it
belongs to him almost in the way that certain odours belong to
certain coloured races.

There may have been another reason for my strange experience.
According to clairvoyant people, who have disciplined their gift to
such an extent as to be able to use it with the fullest consciousness, a
clairvoyant examination may produce effects similar to that which
I had just experienced. Rudolf Steiner examined people occasionally
in that way, the object of such an examination being to see the
person's spiritual instead of his merely physical picture. But Steiner
was always fully conscious of what such an examination entails.
'The thought that a human being could be merely an object of
observation,' he said in one of his books, 'must never for a moment
be entertained. Self-education must see to it that this insight into
human nature goes hand in hand with an unlimited respect for the

192

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

personal privilege of each individual, and with the recognition of the
sacred and inviolable nature of that which dwells in each human being.'

Of course I could have protected myself against a * clairvoyant
examination'. Had I come to meet Gurdjieff in an open instead of a
defensive state of mind he would probably not have succeeded in
achieving whatever he was aiming at. No 'psychic' power is strong
enough to affect a loving, human attitude, and there are other
methods by which it is possible to protect oneself against an un-
wanted clairvoyant scrutiny.

When the feeling of nervousness and weakness in my legs had
disappeared, I turned towards Gurdjieff. 'I was told', I said, 'that
you had lately published a book. As to my knowledge you have
never published anything before, everything I know about your
ideas is secondhand. I should be grateful if you would tell me where
I can buy your book.'

My host got up, went to one of the black suitcases on the floor,
took out of it a thin book, and came up to me. 'Here it is, and, you
know, no money can buy it. It is only for a few. But I present it to
you. You find all in it you want.'

I thanked him and went on: 'I was told you were preparing a large
book that will contain all your teaching and your experience of many
years.'

He waved his hand as though the big book I mentioned meant
nothing to him. 'I writing nine books always, they thick so — so.'
He showed with his fingers that each one of these books was at least
three or four inches thick.

'There seems to be a manuscript of one of your books in the
possession of one of your former pupils in London. Is it one of the
proposed nine volumes?'

Gurdjieff made a contemptuous gesture: 'That nothing, just
nothing. They all have my visions.'

I looked enquiringly at the young man. 'He means versions', he
whispered.

'I always write three visions. Only last is for publication. No-one
knows last one only myself. Others are here and there and here.
They all have them, and then begin their own teaching on them.
But that mean nothing. I have pupils all across the world, in all
countries, groups are everywhere. In England alone fifteen, in fifteen
cities. And all try to do new teaching on my teaching. Ach, but means
nothing, just nothing.' He snapped his fingers in a gesture of contempt.

193

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

*Is it true that you are preparing a group of disciples who will
eventually become a sort of esoteric school, out of which your
knowledge will radiate into the world?'

'You find everything in this book, everything.' He pointed to the
little volume in my hand. 'Everything is there. No good you now
speak to me. You not know me. You first read this book and then
come to me. Then we speak together. But now you not know what
ask. First read this book, everything in it.'

I understood that Gurdjieff had no wish to answer my question
and that he considered the conversation finished. But I was deter-
mined to stay on for another few minutes and to see more of him.
'Is Ouspensky's teaching in your opinion original or based on yours;
and do you consider him the most important of all your former
followers?' I continued as though I had not noticed his impatience.

'He just been one of my pupils, one of thousand, ten thousand.'
He again made one of his deprecatory movements with one hand.
Whenever he made one of these gestures he looked the perfect
Levantine: evasive in his answers, hyperbolical and anxious as to
what effect he was producing. It may be that all the mannerisms and
inconsistencies of his behaviour were parts of a method and that by
employing such a system of 'tricks' he was able to discern my
'reactions' more clearly than he would otherwise have discerned
them. Nevertheless I could not make myself believe that the pursuit
of truth need ever require such a bewildering method of approach.
Why should a man with great knowledge and experience require a
technique of rudeness, of antagonizing his pupils, of constant evas-
iveness? Did not his knowledge suffice to 'look' into me and to
examine my ' natural reactions' on a basis of ordinary human relation-
ship? And yet some serious-minded people had been under his spell.
He had treated some of them like slaves, and yet they had forsaken
all their former beliefs and blindly followed him. His hypnotic
powers, the physical attraction he must once have possessed, the
fire in his eyes could not alone have produced such effects. Ouspensky
had undoubtedly been right when he had told me that one had to
separate the system represented by Gurdjieff from Gurdjieff the man.

Now that I had seen and apprehended Gurdjieff the man, I felt I
could leave him. For once the original had been true to the accounts
of him.

I got up, and Gurdjieff said: 'You first read this book. It has
everything, and then you come to me again. We then talk.'

194

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

'When and where can I see you again?' I enquired.

'My office, Childs.'

I looked up without understanding. The young man near the fire-
place helped: 'He means the Restaurant Childs in Fifth Avenue and
56th Street.'

* I have three Childs, they all my office. Here I work in the morning.
But evening my office Childs. You come and we then drink coffee
together and speak more. I there every evening six to eight.'

'Thank you, Mr. Gurdjieff. I shall certainly visit you there after
I have read your book.'

I went straight to my hotel, which was no distance away, and
when I reached my room I became conscious of a strong desire to
wash my hands. I washed them in very hot water for about five
minutes, and then felt better, and sat down to record my strange
experience.

The book that Gurdjieff had presented me with was bound in a
most curious sort of paper: it resembled suede leather and yet gave
a harshness to the touch that almost set one's teeth on edge. I felt
that this binding was not chosen without a purpose. On its cover
were the words:

G. GURDJIEFF
THE HERALD OF COMING GOOD

First Appeal to
Contemporary Humanity

PRICE FROM 8 TO 108 FRENCH FRANCS
PARIS 1933

Inside the book there was a green registration blank with the number
of my copy and a space for supplying such details as to whether it
was 'acquired accidentally or on advice', the sum paid, and name
and address of the adviser. As I had been presented with my copy
I escaped this procedure.

The book was an announcement of what Gurdjieff called, without
undue modesty, 'Coming good'. By this he meant the books that

195

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

he was promising to place before the world in the near future. The
little book was an amazing publication. It gave you in many in-
stances the impression of the work of a man who was no longer sane.
And yet it was impossible to sweep aside Gurdjieff 's statements as
the self-adulation of an insane mind. (Some of the statements quoted
in the earlier pages of this chapter have been taken from The Herald
of Coming Good.)

Gurdjieff here promises to disseminate the whole of his knowledge,
which seems to include many esoteric secrets. He announces the
publication of three series of books, comprising ten volumes, the
title of the whole series to be 'All and Everything'. The first series
will be called 'An Objective Impartial Criticism of the Life of Man',
and will contain such subjects as 'The Cause of the Genesis of the
Moon', 'The Relativity of Time Conception', and 'Hypnotism'; the
second series will be called 'Meetings with Remarkable Men'; the
third will be 'Life is real only when "I am"'. We are told that the
original manuscript is written in 'Russian and Armenian', and that
'the first book of the first series is already being printed in the
Russian, French, English and German colloquial languages', and
that 'translations are already being finished in the Armenian, Span-
ish, Turkish and Swedish languages'. Only the three books of the
first series will be universally accessible. The contents of the second
series will be made known 'by means of readings, open to those who
have already a thorough knowledge of the contents of the first
series'. 'Acquaintance with the contents of the third series is per-
mitted only to those people who . . . have already begun to manifest
themselves ... in strict accordance with my indications', Gurdjieff
explains, 'set forth in the previous series of my writings.'

The style itself exhibited the same signs of strangeness, amounting
almost to insanity, that were manifest in the subject matter. Reading
the Herald was like the progress of a cart over cobblestones. Most
sentences ran on endlessly. The first sentence contained no fewer
than two hundred and eighty-four words.

I was more interested in certain personal data than in the fantastic
announcement of the coming books. Certain facts of that mysterious
life were disclosed here for the first time, though hardly any of them
was very clear. Gurdjieff admitted having spent some of his life in
an Eastern monastery in order to acquire certain occult knowledge.
'I decided one day', he says, 'to abandon everything and to retire
for a definite period into complete isolation . . . and to endeavour

196

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

by means of active reflection ... to think out some new ways for my
fertile researches. This took place during my stay in Central Asia,
when, thanks to the introduction to a street barber, whom I accident-
ally met ... I happened to obtain access into a monastery well
known among the followers of the Mohammedan religion.' Gurd-
jieff admits that he also devoted himself to the study of 'supernatural
sciences', that he learned how to perform the usual supernatural
tricks, and he relates how he acquired the gift of hypnotism. 'I began
to collect all kinds of written literature and oral information still
surviving among certain Asiatic peoples, about that branch of
science, which was highly developed in ancient times, and called
mekheness, the "taking away of responsibility", and of which con-
temporary civilization knows but an insignificant portion under the
name of "hypnotism" . . . Collecting all I could, I went to a certain
dervish monastery ... in central Asia . . . and devoted myself wholly
to the study of the material in my possession. After two years of
thorough theoretical study ... I began to give myself out to be a
"healer" of all kinds of vices and to apply the results of my theoreti-
cal studies to them. . . . This continued to be my exclusive pre-
occupation . . . for four or five years ... I arrived at unprecedented
practical results without equal in our day.'

Gurdjieff discloses that both through nature and inheritance there
had been in him a predisposition towards supernatural knowledge.
'Great Nature', he writes in his pompous style, 'had benevolently
provided all my family and me in particular . . . with the highest
degree of comprehension attainable by man. . . .' From his earliest
days Gurdjieff appears to have had access to a knowledge not open
to most men, and this may be partly responsible for his belief in his
own infallibility. * I had . . .*, he says, ' the possibility of gaining access
to the so-called "holy of holies" of nearly all hermetic organizations
such as religious, philosophical, occult, political and mystic societies
. . . which were inaccessible to the ordinary man ... I had read
almost everything existing about these questions ... a literature
accessible to me because of quite accidental circumstances of my
life far beyond the usual possibilities of the ordinary man.'

Speaking of his former possessions Gurdjieff says that he had
accumulated enormous wealth. It is not disclosed by what means,
but he states: 'I began to liquidate my current affairs, which were
dispersed over different countries in Asia, and collecting all the
wealth which I had amassed during my long life. . . .' This reference

197

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

to a long life as far back as 1912 focuses our attention on the subject
of Gurdjieff's age. In another place he speaks of having finished
certain researches before the year 1892. Both these facts indicate that
in 1933 he must have been at least seventy, this being the year of the
publication of his book. And yet the man to whom I had spoken
that afternoon seemed little more than fifty years old. His looks, his
figure, his voice — everything about him suggested that age.

VII

Though Gurdjieff had adherents in England and in France, most
of his credulous followers were in America. I was surprised at the
number of people there who had attended his classes or seen his
dances. Often when I mentioned his name, someone would come
forward and give me some dramatic account, illustrated by a per-
sonal experience. Though these accounts varied, though some of
the speakers swore by Gurdjieff and others almost cursed him,
though some considered that he possessed greater and deeper know-
ledge than anybody alive and others called him a charlatan and a
madman, they all agreed that there was something powerful and
uncanny about him. Stories were reported to me of people who had
given Gurdjieff their whole fortunes in order to help him with his
work, and of pupils who were unable to tear themselves away from
him, and felt happy in his presence even if they had to suffer from
his abuse. I have never heard the word 'possessed' used so often in
connection with any other teacher.

And yet there could be no doubt that the man who exercised such
a strong influence over his pupils had ceased to be the power he
once was. Evasiveness, contradiction and bluff— formerly the wea-
pons in a most complicated system — seemed to have become part
of Gurdjieff's very nature. When his mother died in 1925 at Fon-
tainebleau Gurdjieff placed on her grave a huge tombstone with the
fantastic inscription:

' Id Repose

La M&re de Celui

Qui se Vit par

Cette Mori Forcd

D'ficrire Le Livre

IntituU

Les Opiumistes9
198

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

('Here lies the mother of one who sees himself forced by her
death to write the book Les Opiumistes.9) Mme. Gurdjieff was well
over eighty at the time of her death, her end was not unexpected and
could have hardly been a great shock to her son. The book which he
saw himself 'forced' to write has never been heard of.

It suddenly occurred to me that there was among Gurdjieff s
present pupils not one of those who had gathered round him in
Russia before the war. This was indeed of utmost significance, and
it showed, too, why in his early days those who knew him had no-
thing but praise for him, while the opinions of his later pupils were,
to say the least, most conflicting.

It was not only in New York that I met people who had been in
touch with Gurdjieff. I came across them in several smaller towns
and, of course, in California, where every uncommon metaphysical
theory finds adherents. There were groups of people who had once
been instructed by Alfred Orage, and who now tried to follow
Gurdjieff *s chaotic teaching. Even if people had no longer any con-
tact with Gurdjieff, they would become intensely interested the
moment I mentioned his name. His indomitable personality never
failed to exercise a strange fascination even over people who had
denounced him long ago.

VIII

I suspected that Gurdjieff had no intention of giving any precise
answers to the questions I had put to him, even supposing I were to
meet him again. I could not conceive how a conversation of any
significance could be successful in the atmosphere of an eating place
in Fifth Avenue, with all its noise and bustle. The presence of Gurd-
jieff's pupils, whom I did not know, would be of little help in such
a conversation. Nevertheless I decided one evening to visit him at
his restaurant.

The Greek was sitting at a table quite near the entrance. Dressed
in a dark suit, he looked more commonplace than on the first
occasion I had met him. He was smoking a cigarette and writing in
a copybook in front of him. The page was covered with large, slightly
unformed English calligraphy. On another page the writing looked
rather exotic and I assumed that it was Armenian. Gurdjieff did not
recognize me at first, and I had to stoop down to him and explain
who I was. After a few seconds he remembered me and asked me to
sit down next to him. One of his pupils was with him.

199

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

I tried from the very first to ask Gurdjieff precise questions about
his teaching. This would save time, and it would reduce the possi-
bility of evasive answers. But I had hardly finished speaking when he
got up and walked over to a lady who must have been standing there
for some time, anxious to catch Gurdjieff 's eye. In her face there
was the same expression that I had seen in the face of the disciple
during my first interview. When Gurdjieff had returned to our table
I made another attempt to talk to him, but this time we were fore-
stalled by a middle-aged man who came up to us. It was another of
Gurdjieff's pupils. We exchanged names and the man sat down.
Meanwhile Gurdjieff ordered coffee with lemon. This seemed to
me a strange drink, but the waitress must have been used to the
order, for she showed no signs of surprise, and returned with the
drink a few minutes later. Gurdjieff squeezed out the juice of the
lemon into the black coffee, and then dropped the lemon into the
cup.

Within ten minutes several other pupils arrived, and our party
now occupied three or four tables in a row. Gurdjieff was for ever
getting up, walking towards the door, and talking to people who
were coming and going. It was impossible to begin a connected
conversation. Nevertheless I had a more favourable impression of
him than at my first visit. He seemed simpler and less sinister. I
noticed now for the first time a certain human quality in him. Even
his English seemed better, and I began to suspect that its inferior
quality during my first interview had been partly assumed. Had it
been a part of Gurdjieff's method of provoking 'genuine reactions'?
I limited myself after a while to questions about his plans with regard
to his new school, to the publication of his books or to other details
of his work. But even so he remained evasive, and I could not record
a single definite answer.

During one of his frequent absences from the table I began a
conversation with the gentleman opposite me. He seemed Gurd-
jieff's main assistant, and I noticed that the questions I had been
asking his master were making him uncomfortable. Eventually he
expressed his anxiety: *I am afraid you have chosen a wrong method
of questioning Mr. Gurdjieff. By asking him in such a direct and
precise way you almost force him to answer yes or no. He is not used
to that, and he does not care for such a form of conversation. Any-
how, I don't think you'll succeed very much. You ask him in a con-
versation of twenty minutes questions for the answers to which

200

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

many of us have been waiting for a great many years. None of us
dares to put to him such questions'.

I thanked him for the information and decided that it would not
indeed be of much avail to remain here any longer. As I was leaving
for England in a few days' time, and had no chance of following the
method of the disciples, it seemed that I should have to depart with-
out receiving answers to my questions — but the frightened faces of
the eight or ten people sitting round, and the hushed atmosphere
the moment Gurdjieff addressed any of them, had been more explicit
than any conversation could have been.

Gurdjieff's pupils did not try to disguise their feelings towards me.
They probably considered me an intruder, and my presence was
anything but welcome. When they had met me at the beginning of
the evening they had cast inquisitive glances in my direction as
though fearing that a new disciple had arrived, upon whom their
master might waste some of those favours that had hitherto been
bestowed exclusively upon them. Once they were reassured that I was
not a disciple, they seemed to feed their antagonism on my attitude
towards Gurdjieff. They probably expected me to worship their
hero, and were deeply offended at my failure to do so. Not one of
them had given me even the conventional smile generally offered to
a newcomer. Not one of them asked me the habitual questions which
are put to break the ice, and they avoided helping me when they
noticed my occasional difficulties in understanding Gurdjieff's
English. It may be that their antagonistic reserve was affected by
the presence of their master, under whose influence they were unable
to show common politeness to a stranger. There was no doubt: I
had overstayed my welcome, and I rose to go. No-one tried to per-
suade me to stay on, and even Gurdjieff did not utter a word of
encouragement. I thanked him, bowed to the assembled company,
and walked out into the bracing air of an autumn evening in New
York.

When I arrived back in London I went to one of Gurdjieff's former
followers in Europe. He was a fairly intelligent man, and earlier in
the year I had had some interesting conversations with him about
Gurdjieff. I told him of my experience in New York.

'Your account', he replied, 'does not surprise me. I have often
heard stories like that. Even to me certain things about Gurdjieff

201

THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

were always as inexplicable as they must be to anybody unaccustomed
to his wanton methods. And yet he has brought me — and many
other people — nearer to truth than anybody else. Mind, emotions
and body are no longer antagonistic. Though it is true that many
of the things Gurdjieff does and says seem meaningless, yet while
you are in the midst of your work, he will say something to you that
will give you the answer to questions you have been long pondering.
His sense of your problem of the moment and his knowledge of the
moment at which you are ripe for the answer are uncanny. At times
we had to wait for years, and it was as though Gurdjieff knew exactly
how many doubts we had to conquer before we were ready for his
answers. You would be wrong to judge his conduct according to
ordinary human standards. There seems a richness within Gurdjieff
which allows him to do things that would be wrong for our own
limited selves. In a way he reminds me of the god Siva.'

'The god Siva?' I interrupted with surprise.

'Yes, Siva, the destroyer-god of the god-trinity, the god of many
functions, the lord of the spirits of music — and, don't forget, the
god of dancing.*

This conversation only renewed and strengthened my conviction
that the very teacher who may be of great help to one person may
utterly fail to disclose himself to another. Even in the more recent
years Gurdjieff 's methods seemed to have been of some assistance to
various people. Others were enlightened — where I was merely puzzled.

I could dimly discern that the essence of Gurdjieff 's teaching con-
tains a truth that everyone in contact with spiritual reality is bound
to preach. But I failed utterly to accept his methods in that spirit
of trust, of faith or of understanding, any one of which is essential
for the absorption of spiritual knowledge. Sometimes the personality
of a teacher is more impressive than his teaching — at other times
the reverse is the case. If I found it impossible to accept Gurdjieff
and to let him help me in moulding myself, it was because his person-
ality, however strong, failed utterly to convince me. I had been
unable to perceive in the man George Ivanovitch Gurdjieff the
harmonious development of man.

Just as the manuscript of this book was going to the printers I
received the following letter:

202

HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN

Captain Achmed Abdullah. Fifth Avenue House,

Sunday. New York City.

DEAR SIR,

As to Gurdjieff, I have no way of proving that I am right —
except that I know I am right.

When I knew him, thirty years ago, in Tibet, he was, besides
being the young Dalai Lama's chief tutor, the main Russian political
agent for Tibet. A Russian Buriat by race and a Buddhist by religion,
his learning was enormous, his influence in Lhassa very great, since
he collected the tribute of the Baikal Tartars for the Dalai Lama's
exchequer, and he was given the high title of Tsannyis Khan-po. In
Russia he was known as Hambro Akvan Dorzhieff; to the British
Intelligence as Lama Dorjieff. When we invaded Tibet, he dis-
appeared with the Dalai in the general direction of outer Mongolia.
He spoke Russian, Tibetan, Tartar, Tadjik, Chinese, Greek, strongly
accented French and rather fantastic English. As to his age — well —
I would say ageless. A great man who, though he dabbled in Russian
imperialistic politics, did so — I have an idea — more or less in the
spirit of jest.

I met Gurdjieff, almost thirty years later, at dinner in the house
of a mutual friend, John O'Hara Cosgrave, former editor of the
New York World, in New York. I was convinced that he was Lama
Dorjieff. I told him so — and he winked. We spoke in Tadjik.

I am a fairly wise man. But I wish I knew the things which Gurd-
jieff has forgotten.

Very faithfully,

A. ABDULLAH.

203

PART THREE
FULFILMENTS

'And ye shall know the truth,
and the truth shall make you free.*
ST. JOHN viii. 32.

INTRODUCTION
ARYAN GODS

Anost fifteen years lay between the time at which I began my
search and the moment at which I decided to write of it. New
creeds had appeared beside the old, and had, in some cases, replaced
them.

In 1934 I decided to revisit the men through whose influence I
had once learned so much. I had begun my search in Germany and
it was obvious that Germany should be the first country for me to
revisit. I was anxious to see what had become of the work of Stefan
George, Rudolf Steiner and Keyserling under the Third Reich.

It became evident to me during the very first days that there was as
little room in the new Reich for the old spiritual influences as there
was for those of such men as Thomas Mann or Albert Einstein. My
search reduced itself therefore to a study of those influences outside
German life, to the question as to how it was possible for the in-
fluence of men who had once been hailed by many representative
Germans as their true leaders to be swept away by tendencies en-
tirely opposed to their own and to a search for the new gods that
had replaced the old ones. What is the practical value of spiritual
doctrines if they have no influence upon the conduct of a nation?
I soon discovered that such doctrines can only affect a small group
of people, who in their turn have to disseminate the new message.
Doctrines that are adopted immediately seldom have a deep influence.
The conduct of a nation is not directed by discoveries made by the
spiritual leaders of the day.

Even the name of Stefan George, the man whose only medium
was the German language, seemed to evoke a more enthusiastic echo

204

ARYAN GODS

among young men in Paris than in Berlin; the fame of Steiner was
growing in Switzerland, Holland, England and other countries,
rather than in Germany; and Key selling, whose name was hardly
mentioned in Germany, had become something of a hero in Spain,
South America and in France. Even Rilke, one of Germany's most
distinguished poets, worshipped by pre-Nazi Germany as were few
others, seemed almost forgotten. This was not surprising. The
message of each of these men was in no way limited to his own
particular country, and affected all people alike. Those Germans for
whom those names still had a deep meaning — and they hardly cared
to speak loudly about them — formed an infinitesimal minority.

In the case of George, the hero of yesterday was nearly made the
hero of to-day. The Nazi government acted in the spirit of Napoleon's
remark, 'They tell me we have no great literature; I must speak to
the Minister of the Interior about it', and were anxious to make
George the figurehead of German literature.

George's visionary appeals to the native instincts of the German
people could easily be misinterpreted as being identical with the
new racial doctrine. But he soon dispelled the notion that his teaching
could be adopted as a topical political doctrine, and when the
Government offered to make him President of the new German
Academy he declined. Soon afterwards he left the country — on
account of his health, it was stated, though his decision is thought to
have been affected only partly by this consideration — and went to
Locarno.

He died in Locarno in 1934, away from the country whose lan-
guage and many of whose spiritual values he — more than any man
since Goethe — had helped to re-create. His friends arranged that his
funeral should take place with no loss of time, before an official
representative of the German government could arrive.

Ill

Before I left England on this visit to Germany I had been given
introductions to some of those Nazi leaders who would be able to
answer my questions. I went to see several of those men, but they
spoke only of politics, social reforms and their victory over economic

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difficulties. They could tell me nothing about that spiritual power
that had inspired the strange upheavals in Germany during the last
few years.

I was advised that nowhere should I see a more distinct mani-
festation of this new spirit than at a demonstration at which the
'Leader' would be present. I was assured that wherever the 'Leader'
appeared the love of the masses would show me the mystical powers
that guided Germany's new destiny. The best place would be out-
side the Chancellor's palace, from whence the 'Leader' usually
emerged in the early afternoon.

I went to the Wilhelmstrasse and joined a crowd of people waiting
opposite the courtyard of the Chancellor's palace. It was the same
palace in which the aged Disraeli had signed the Treaty of Berlin;
in which Bismarck had tried to stabilize the new Reich, and in which
the courtly Billow, the cautious Stresemann and the hesitant Briining
had ruled over Germany. Under the roof of the palace two floating
ladies in classical garb supported the Eagle of the Reich. All three
of them were made of a stucco which had acquired the charming
patina reminiscent of the days when Berlin was only the capital of
the Kingdom of Prussia. At the entrance gates there were policemen
with steel helmets and the men of Hitler's personal bodyguard. They
were all over six feet tall, and wore black uniforms with black
steel helmets and, round their sleeves, a yellow band with the
words 'Adolf Hitler'. They had short modern-looking rifles, and
a dagger and a revolver were stuck in the belt of each of them.
The floating ladies under the roof seemed, all of a sudden, very
old-fashioned.

It was a hot sunny day. I was one of a group of about a hundred
people. There were a number of middle-aged 'Hausfrauen* per-
spiring heavily under the midday sun, and munching sandwiches
that they had brought with them. There were boys of the 'Hitler
Youth', healthy-looking with tanned legs and sunburnt faces, and
with a red swastika armlet round the sleeve of their brown shirts.
There were young girls, slim, unselfconscious and typical of the new
German Mddchen. They had little in common with their less prosaic,
less good-looking and more womanly pre-war sisters. There were
also a few men without coats and with those indispensable attache
cases which under the Nazis seem to form a part of German masculine
attire just as much as they had done under less militaristic rulers.

Many members of both the younger and the older generations

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ARYAN GODS

were casting longing glances in the direction of a stout little fellow
in a white apron, offering ice creams and shouting with the squeaky
voice of a third-rate comedian, 'Eskimo, meine Damen und Herren,
Eskimo!' It was very hot indeed.

Suddenly the blue policemen and the black bodyguard seemed
turned to statues. A very long open motor car drove slowly out of
the courtyard. The man at the wheel and his neighbour were both
wearing black uniforms adorned with silver. In the rear of the car
and next to a third man in black was the 'Leader'. He wore an in-
congruous pale mackintosh and no hat. With a rigid gesture of his
right arm he acknowledged the greetings of the crowd. The thin
mouth under the little black moustache was shut tight and the face
bore a strained and self-conscious expression.

The people round me raised their arms and shouted 'Heil Hitler';
some of them waved handkerchiefs, two or three women threw little
bunches of flowers into the car. There could be no doubt as to the
warmth and the spontaneity of their enthusiasm. I had, however,
seen a similar and much more passionate display of fervour when
Mussolini appeared at a window of the Palazzo Venezia to raise
his arm in Roman salute. Over and over again have I seen crowds
whose emotions were focused so strongly on the hero of the moment
that it looked like some voluptuous self-sacrifice. The enthusiasm
in the Wilhelmstrasse failed to disclose to me the nature of the
specific Aryan gods.

For a certain time I hoped to find those gods among the people
I met in daily life. But these people showed either the blind fanaticism
of soldiers who obey without questioning, or the disappointment of
those who had expected the Third Reich to bring them Paradise and
now grumbled over their unfulfilled dreams ; they tried to persuade
me with fair-sounding propaganda and ready-made speeches or they
refused to take any interest in issues outside their own sphere.

Finally I was advised to go and see the leading young workers
within the party. I visited in important Government and Party offices
several young organizers, propagandists and private secretaries.
They had a blind faith in their new gods and in the Fuhrer. Though
their names were little known to the man in the street, they were
supposed to be at the very core of the Third Reich.

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I was impressed by their enthusiasm, and so I asked them outright:
where are your new gods; where are the mystical forces of which your
manifestos and books speak so loudly? The young men were obliging
and answered in unison: the mystical forces are to be found in
Hitler's life and achievement, in his mission and his success. When
I pressed them for more exact answers, they said:

'The gods you are looking for are in the fellowship that the Leader
restored to German life. The Germans had learned real friendship
in the trenches; but they were forced to forget it in the immoral
years between 1919 and 1933. The Leader gave them back fellowship.

'The gods you are looking for are in the strength of the Leader.
Before him there was no leadership, and Germany was a toy in the
hands of private interests or foreign powers. The Leader brought
strength and unity of purpose, and he thus inspired youth.

'The gods you are looking for are in the faith of the Leader in
his people. Before him politicians relied on the workmen or the
bankers, the army or the trade unions, industry or the priests. For
the Leader the whole nation is one, and all classes worship him as
their only idol.

'The gods you are looking for are in the purity of the race that the
Leader is giving his people, and in his care for their health. To-day
the people know that there is someone who perceives the mystical
power that is in their blood, and who prevents them from stooping
down below themselves and from allowing that blood to be mixed.

'The gods you are looking for are in the pure character of the
Leader. Before him, champagne flowed through the Wilhelmstrasse.
To-day ours is a Leader who is a vegetarian, a teetotaller, a non-
smoker, and whose only relaxation is listening to Wagner and
Schumann. His life is so pure that even his enemies cannot find the
slightest blemish in it.

'The gods you are looking for lie in the deep religiosity of the
Leader. He is not a churchgoer, for the whole nation is a church for
him, and to serve his people is his holy service. His Christianity is not
theoretical but truly active, and that fascinates the masses. It brings
them a direct message from the gods you are looking for.'

After the young men had spoken with such enthusiasm and fer-
vour, I understood that spiritual truth only discloses itself to a few
in profound thought or through native wisdom, which is, perhaps,
the highest of the divine gifts.

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ARYAN GODS

And so I went to a very wise man. He had no prejudices, political
or otherwise, and he had reached that maturity where such things
as success or enmity no longer exist. Never in the past have I found
his pronouncements to be wrong. I begged him to tell me of the
spiritual currents that run invisibly under German events.

'The Nazi revolution', the wise man said, 'is a confirmation of
the Old Testament. That is its fate. You can compare Nazism only
with ancient Judaism. No other two movements in history have been
so similar one to the other as those two. They are both based on
purity of blood, they both stress the importance of race and family
and are both convinced of their own exclusiveness; they both believe
that God bestowed a special mission upon them, and they both
see a holy, mystical quality in the soil on which they live. You find
the whole of the Nazi attitude in the sentence of The Mythos of the
Twentieth Century, the Nazi Bible written by our official cultural
leader Alfred Rosenberg: "Besides the mythos of the free soul," he
says, "there is the mythos of the religion of blood."

'The idea of purity of blood — for to-day it is no more than an
idea — is responsible for much of the Nazi success. Not the powers
of the spirit win victories on this earth. It is blood that wins them.

'The ancient Jews adhered to the principle of purity of blood with
even greater insistence than do the Nazis. Only through purity of
blood could they obtain their highest achievements, which could
come to them through the brain alone, and through that brain
only if it were fed by the purest of blood. No Jew in possession of
spiritual truth was allowed to wed a stranger, for only in purity
of blood could a truth, indispensable for higher achievement, be pre-
served. The body of the ancient Jews was meant to be a chalice for
the reception of the wisdom that came from God. And their blood
had to be kept pure so that the physical body of the most Perfect of
men might be born out of it.

'To-day blood plays a different part. Through the teaching of
Christ all men on earth have become equal, and every one of them
can partake of a knowledge that could formerly manifest itself only
in those of pure blood. Purity of blood as a spiritual necessity
has no longer any meaning. Anyhow, as a nation we have become
so mixed that it will take centuries before we can claim to be pure in
blood. I fear that the modern idea of purity of blood is an intellectual
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FULFILMENTS

construction without spiritual roots. It is effective, because it evoked
certain powers within the nation that should have been made use
of for years but have been neglected by our former leaders. The
fourteen years before the Nazi revolution were the years of intellec-
tual and other experiments and of contempt for the power of the
blood. This was bound to claim revenge, and so we see that to-day
appeals to the blood adorn almost every German government
decree, and serve as subject for well-nigh every speech and manifesto.

'But this idea of blood implies more than purity of blood alone.
Blood is the opposite of spirit. Thus the idea of blood is one of
physical ties, of heredity, of the soil, of property, of possessiveness.
It is the last legacy of the nineteenth century, which believed blindly
in the reality of matter.

'Was it Germany's mission to strengthen the power of the last
century? I believe that Germany had a mission to fulfil. People who
say that we are of the country of Lessing, Goethe and Schopenhauer,
remind us that we are chosen to introduce spiritual understanding
into the modem world. In pre-war days the blatant contradiction of
that mission was our Kaiser. Though Germany's mission is a general
European mission, it seems that through our geographical position
and historical inheritance we were especially predestined to fulfil it.
It is the mission of making Christianity a reality in our age. Christ
demolished the frontiers that existed between men; spiritual equality
of men should at last be extended to nations. We have reached a
moment when this has to be done, and when economics will force
the world to do it. We must not be deceived by temporary economic
barriers. Whether they survive twenty or thirty years is immaterial,
for they are only temporary. Even to-day nations begin to pull
them down and to collaborate through barter. Germany's mission, I
think, was to foster such a rapprochement of the various nations,
and to extend it to other fields besides economics. To fulfil that
mission of the twentieth century we had to break away once and for
all from the laws that had governed the nineteenth. A new conception
of political and national life was necessary. And it was in our power
to introduce it and thus to fulfil Germany's destiny.

'Where did the powers of materialism come from, that reigned so
vigorously over the last century? They are the last manifestation of
the principle contained in the Old Testament. This principle is not
limited to the religion of the Jews alone. It is the principle of all pre-
Christian religions in which the forces of blood are predominant.

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ARYAN GODS

In the Old Testament we find them more clearly defined than in any
other religion, and they affected the Western world primarily through
the medium of the Old Testament.

'Purity of blood had enabled the Jews to provide the perfect body
for the Son of God and to give the world the most perfect form of
materialism. Since the first task has been accomplished, and since the
forces of materialism have fulfilled their mission the principle of the
Old Testament is no longer needed. And yet Hitler's victory is a
victory of that principle. Lack of spiritual individualism with blind
obedience to one law alone, and the corresponding separation of
nations, the stressing of family ties, of purity of blood — all these are
principles of the Old Testament.

'Hitler as the instrument of certain powers must have heard dim
voices that told him of the approaching end of the old principle. But
he misunderstood the voices. Instead of replacing the old principle
by a newer gospel, he attacked the religion contained in the Old
Testament. Instead of forgetting a unity with the soil which in our
age ought to be a unity with all and every soil and not one in par-
ticular, instead of forgetting blood and race, he strengthened those
powers. Instead of opening our frontiers and letting the world come
to benefit from the new springs of German spirit, he antagonized the
world. Instead of inviting the whole world to collaborate he with-
drew from the League of Nations. He is the only European leader
who can afford to adopt any policy he wishes. He could have led our
country out of limited national issues into truly spiritual ones.
Several of our statesmen with much less power had begun to do it
in the last few years. Hitler merely emphasized such issues as rearma-
ment, as the fictitious equality of status, as racial pride. Instead of
destroying the principle of the Old Testament he destroyed some
of its racial representatives. The Third Reich might have become a
truly Holy German Empire. . . .

'The power of destiny proved too strong in one instance only.
I am referring to the exile of many of our best men. Thousands of
them were forced to go into the world and thus the spiritual frontiers
between Germany and other countries are breaking down, though
not in the way many had hoped they would.

'People who claim to know more than most mortals say that,
though in a different form, another nation has begun to fulfil what
might have been Germany's mission. Great Britain is that nation.
She is establishing at present within her own Empire the most perfect

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example of practical Christianity through international collaboration
spreading over five continents. She may not be conscious of what
she is doing — though I doubt it. What matters is that Great Britain
introduced into the modern world the Christian idea of deliberate col-
laboration and elimination of narrow nationalist elements in all
important issues of her life. Germany had the knowledge and the
opportunity for fulfilling that mission. England was guided merely by
her indefinable "sense" that perceives truth without knowing it.
Politically the British Empire has become a much looser entity
than it has ever been before, and one part after another is making
itself politically independent. Economically, however, each individual
part is trying to collaborate with the others, to readjust itself to
their needs, to take of their best and to give them of its best in return.
The British Empire is experiencing a rebirth through free collabora-
tion instead of through conquests. Only in organic unity and in
spiritual freedom can the modern world escape a premature death.'

212

CHAPTER I
THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

Though I had not seen Keyserling for some twelve years or more,
I had followed his career with enough interest to know that
his reputation had been fast increasing. The Tagungen in Darmstadt,
which had been continued for several years, formed only a small
part of his activities. Almost every year he had published a new
book — provocative, stimulating, full of new light on old truths and
displaying a lively imagination. After the Travel Diary there appeared
a book called Schopferische Erkenntnis ('Creative Understanding'),
which contained a synthesis of his main philosophy of 'Significance'.
The next book was Recovery of Truth, which was partly a con-
tinuation of its predecessor. Then came Menschen ah Sinnbilder
('Symbolical Figures'), a very personal collection of essays, and Die
neuentstehende Welt ('The World in the Making'), one of the
author's most successful books. With his next book, Das Spektrum
Europas ('Europe'), Keyserling offended most of the nations he
had ever visited. His brilliant but superficial analysis of most of the
European countries earned him new fame and fresh abuse. The
result of a lecture tour through the United States was a bulky volume
America Set Free. It is an entertaining book, full of unusual matter;
and written — such is Keyserling's linguistic facility — in English.
But it was too absurd and unflattering and was in consequence
banned throughout the United States. After a prolonged visit to
South America, Keyserling wrote South American Meditations,
which he called the essence of his spiritual maturity. As he said later:
'This book gave to South America its soul.' No other man could
have made such a statement. But who else could have written this
extraordinary book, each one of its five hundred closely printed
pages full of startling ideas and bursting with imagination? Edmond
Jaloux, the eminent French publicist, wrote of the author of this
book: 'He has an almost fabulous volubility of thought. Original
ideas, profound reflections, unexpected points of view, varied knowl-
edge, all come from him in almost torrential form. . . . The reader
feels slightly dazed before such a formidable abundance of thought.'

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More important than the Tagungen and the books were becoming
Keyserling's lectures. He lectured with the same ease in German,
Russian, French or English. He also began to learn Spanish, a
language that particularly appealed to him. After a few months
he could even lecture in it. What is more, he began to coin his own
Spanish words just as he formerly used English, French or German
words that were of his own creation. In 1931 he engaged the huge
Trocadero in Paris and delivered three lectures in French, and the
experiment proved successful, some six thousand people filling the
hall every evening. Keyserling continued to enlarge the scope of his
international activities. He accepted an invitation from his Spanish
friends to hold a congress at Mallorca in the form of a Darmstadt
Tagung. Most of the leading Spaniards were present, and the con-
gress was considered one of the most outstanding events in the
intellectual life of Spain.

Keyserling's linguistic and geographical possibilities enabled
him to exercise a certain intellectual influence over people in many
different countries. With characteristic self-assurance he would say:
'In my childhood I had a gift for sculpture. But to-day I don't need
to sculpt in stone, I can sculpt nations.'

His fame was greatest outside his own country. Before the Ameri-
cans realized that Keyserling had shocked them by his unconven-
tional behaviour and offended them by his provocative book, he
could claim to be one of the most popular foreigners in the United
States. He was famous enough to induce a casual acquaintance to
have his visiting cards printed:

CAROL BRENT CHILTON
Friend of Keyserling

But Keyserling's unbalanced criticism of the United States alienated
many Americans, and hero worship was soon replaced by unflattering
stories, concocted by important hostesses whose lion-hunting
proclivities had not been satisfied by the philosopher. Keyserling's
philosophy was too manysided to be put into a nutshell and served
round dinner tables as a subject for amusing conversation. On the
other hand he was too striking a man to be neglected as a subject of
table talk. The real issues of his personality were overshadowed
by unimportant details. The less frivolous naturally continued
to appreciate him for his intellectual achievements. Keyserling,

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

however, never pretended to be a philosopher addressing a small
circle of specialists; he was, rather, a 'spiritual inspirer'. He could
not possibly limit himself to the select few but had to consider the
big majority.

In the autumn of 1933 he was invited to Paris to speak at a big
international congress. The French Minister of Education presided
over the opening lecture, and the Archbishop of Paris was also
present. Paul Valery was in the chair, and among foreign listeners
there were Salvador de Madariaga from Spain and Aldous Huxley
from England. Keyserling spoke about La r^volte des forces tel~
luriques et les responsabilite's de V esprit and at the second lecture
about La communaut^ des esprits. The essence of those lectures
can be found in a few highly topical sentences in which Keyserling
expressed his beliefs in real spiritual leadership. 'How does the
spiritual guide act?' he asked his vast audience, and answered him-
self immediately: 'Not by suggestion like the mass leader, the lion
tamer, but like a model, a mould or a fruitful symbol. He does not
need the slightest material power. The proper formula or image, be
it that of a living being or of an eternal truth, if only it is duly
meditated upon, suffices to start a process of realization. It is in this
purely spiritual creative activity that I see all the high future mission
of the European spirit.'

Keyserling had just published two new volumes written in French,
and among those who had praised him enthusiastically were Edmond
Jaloux, Andre Siegfried, Guy de Pourtales, Havelock Ellis, Thomas
Mann, Siegmund Freud, Count Apponyi, Henri Bergson, Jose
Ortega Y Gasset.

While looking through the window of my railway carriage at the
shifting scenery of southern Germany I felt that I was indeed on my
way to meet a celebrity of the very first water. His fame would have
been impressive if he had been a film star or a boxing champion.
For a philosopher it was unique.

Though I arrived in Darmstadt early on a Sunday morning, I
rang up Keyserling without delay. I was asked to come and see him
as soon as I wished. I had been warned by several people that he
might be rude, that contradiction would make him lose his temper,
and that I should be obliged to listen only to what he might care to

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FULFILMENTS

tell me. I well remembered his attitude ten or thirteen years earlier,
and approached his home not without apprehension.

The house was situated at the bottom of the hill called Mathilden-
hdhe, which the Grand Duke Ernst Ludwig had presented thirty
years ago to the young artists of his day. They had covered it with
pretentious 'art' villas in the 'new' style. There were windows
flanked by slender lilylike ornaments, and chimneypots covered
with green or mauve tiles.

When I reached my destination I found on the gate an unpre-
tentious enamelled plate with the words Gesellschaft fur Freie
Philosophic ('Society of Free Philosophy'). On the door on the
second floor the plate was smaller, but in brass, and it bore not only
the words I had found on the gate but also Schule der Weisheit
('School of Wisdom'). I must confess that my memories of Darm-
stadt had led me to expect something much grander.

I rang the bell. Keyserling, wearing white ducks and an open
cricket shirt, himself came to the door. As it was a Sunday there
was no secretary or servant. Keyserling seemed even bigger than I
remembered him; he had grown fatter; but his eyes were still as
sparkling, and his vitality seemed, if possible, even greater than ever.
We crossed a small ante-room, entered the study and sat down in
two leather chairs on either side of a table. Keyserling began to talk
without any preliminaries, and I had hardly time to take stock of my
surroundings. When, however, I was able to mention that I had just
been in Berlin and that I had seen several members of the Govern-
ment and had discussed topical questions with them, he immediately
began to talk about his own troubles.

I could see from the very beginning how anxious Keyserling was
to talk At first I could only understand part of what he was saying:
his words chased one another as of old, and before one syllable was
finished the next came tumbling out of his mouth. I found listening
so strenuous that I decided to concentrate on watching Keyserling
himself. His hair and his beard were distinctly greyer; and there was
a disorder about his clothes which corresponded to his nervous and
erratic speech. The room was small and rather simple. In front of
the window there stood a homely writing table with a few manuscript
sheets lying about; on one side of the room there was a bookcase,
on the other a large table covered with books and newspapers.
Through the window beyond some trees I could see a large and
ugly church of uncompromisingly Protestant appearance.

216

THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

Slowly I gathered from the flood of words that Keyserling had
become one of the most hated men in Darmstadt. It was by no means
an enmity of the leading men in Berlin but came from some local
authorities. For the last fifteen years Keyserling had been the most
famous citizen of Hesse, but unfortunately his fame was inter-
national and thus anathema to the local men of power. He possessed
most of the qualifications for unpopularity among the local satraps,
who prided themselves on their independence and great power.
The new idea of leadership (Fuhrerprinzip) and of the final responsi-
bilities of a leader only rarely prove successful. Had the name of
Keyserling not been famous and had his wife not been the grand-
daughter of Bismarck, there can be little doubt that the local leaders
would have tried to harm him even more than they had yet done.
A year ago they had forbidden him to go to Spain on a lecture tour
which would have brought him a large sum of money. As lecture
tours were his chief means of earning his living, and as a prophet
is but rarely listened to in his own land, this refusal caused a great
loss of income to him. Most of the means of injuring him seemed
exhausted, so finally the local men of destiny decided to deprive him
of German citizenship. This matter, being of capital importance
for the proper understanding of Keyserling, must be treated in some
detail. Officials had arrived at his residence a fortnight earlier and
had forced him to give up his passport, so that he was left legally
unprotected.

*I, a Keyserling, who lived in my land like an independent king, I,
father of two greatgrandsons of Bismarck, am treated like a pariah
in a town which became famous through me. The local authorities
offered to give me one of those certificates that are given to eastern
Jews residing in Germany nowadays. And I, Hermann Keyserling,
came to this country in 1918 because I believed I could help Germany;
because I thought people like myself were needed here. I came to
help, and all I get is hatred. I am getting proofs of admiration from
the rest of Germany, from France, Spain, South America to this
day; here — I am treated like an outcast. After the war I could have
gone anywhere I wanted; I had friends in Paris, in Rome, in Vienna;
Arthur Balfour and Lord Haldane were intimate friends of mine;
I had better connections in England and France than in this country;
but I considered it my duty to settle down here and to do my share
whenever I could. And I always loved doing it.'

Keyserling would be put in a very dangerous position if he were

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FULFILMENTS

deprived for good of his passport. He had sent telegrams to the
responsible ministers in Berlin; he had telephoned to Berlin almost
daily; he had fought with all his old fighting spirit. The central
authorities in Berlin had telegraphed to the local leaders, ordering
them to return him his passport, but the principle of local leadership
had become such a powerful weapon that the local men felt strong
enough to disobey the orders of their superiors in Berlin. Keyser-
ling's denaturalization was to become effective the moment the
police should deliver the official document in which the announce-
ment of his loss of German citizenship was to be made. This would
legalize his unprotected status.

'It has always been the same throughout my life — one long chain
of tragic climaxes. I must always fight to the very end, and I win my
victories only when it is almost too late. I assure you it will be the
same this time. I have a certain gift of foreseeing things; and I can
almost see how it will all turn out now. I have often been faced with
the danger of death during a revolution, but each time something
has happened at the last moment to save me. It is as though death
were still shy of touching me. Look at this wound!* he exclaimed,
as he opened his shirt with a gesture. Across his chest there lay a
deep scar — the result of a duel more than thirty years earlier.
'Hardly anyone has ever survived such a wound. I have. I
shall survive many more wounds and fights including this
one.

' Do you realize that I can claim to be one of the real prophets of
the Third Reich? Do you know that I was one of the first to predict
all that happened in this country in the last two years? Wait a
second!' He jumped up from his chair, opened the bookcase, took
out from it a couple of yellow-bound pamphlets, and opened one of
them. 'This is an article I published last year. Listen to it.' He put
on a pair of spectacles and began to read: 'Is it not true that I was
one of the first who had foreseen the future evolution of Germany?
... In an essay I wrote in 1918 I drew a picture of what is happening
to-day. . . . My essays were one long evocation of national communal

life and of a national rebirth My lectures between 1920 and 1926

were one constant praise of heroism. . . .' He interrupted his readings
and said: 'Isn't that exactly what Nazism is doing?' Then he went
on quoting from the pamphlet: 'As far back as 1925 I have pre-
dicted the present wave of nationalism. . . . One has to count me
among the founders of the New Germany. . . .'

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

Keyserling put aside the pamphlet, and went on: 'It is known in
Berlin that I am absolutely loyal to the Nazi regime and to the men
who represent it. That is quite natural, for I am a German above all,
Berlin has always treated me with the greatest consideration and
has supported me. But the local pygmies harm me whenever they
can. They hate me because I am not afraid of them; because my
loyalty to the Third Reich is really much deeper and more seriously
founded than theirs, because I am grand seigneur, famous, a Key-
serling.'

I was becoming accustomed to the strenuous style of my host
and to the speed of his words, and I thought I might venture a
question. 'Do you think the German people are religious?* I asked.

'Not at all. We Germans do not believe in something that is
beyond the rational, but in a Weltanschauung — a philosophy. Thus
we are bound to change our beliefs more frequently than other
nations. This, however, is not disloyalty, for we believe deeply in the
superiority of a new Weltanschauung for which we had sacrificed
an old one. The English with their intellectual laziness do not care
for any Weltanschauung* whether old or new. But the Germans
must have new ones all the time. That's the reason why we were so
impressed by Martin Luther's words: "Here I stand. I cannot do
otherwise." The English would have hardly noticed such an evoca-
tion; to them it is natural that once you make up your mind about
something you stand by it. To the German imagination Luther's
words appeared as verging on the miraculous.'

'Do you consider that the Germans have a political instinct?'

'Not as a whole, but we produce many outstanding exceptions.
Take Germany's past history alone: Frederick the Great, Freiherr
vom Stein, Bismarck — these men are among the greatest statesmen
the world has ever known.'

*I seem to remember that somewhere or other you wrote in 1933
about various aspects of the last German revolution. You said that
the passion of the German revolutionaries of the last year or two
was not political but religious. You also said that the power of
Germany's leader is based not on force but on faith. How do you
explain such things about a nation that does not believe in what is
beyond the rational, that believes more in a Weltanschauung than
in a religion?'

Keyserling got up from his chair, approached me and looked
straight into my eyes, narrowing his own in a sort of half-smile as

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though apologizing beforehand for his answer. I realized later
that he did it often and that the grin was only a trick by which he
was trying to tone down some of his replies. He said in a most
conciliatory voice: 'How can any intelligent person rationalize
about politics? Most political happenings are irrational and inex-
plicable. It is the same as with ourselves: nine-tenths of what happens
within ourselves and of the reasons why we do certain things cannot
be explained. You can understand happenings outside yourself
only if you try to compare them with the experiences within yourself.
Everything outside of ourselves is only an image of phenomena
within.'

'I always imagined that the only inexplicable thing in life is
death.'

'In a way death is the only thing in German life you can explain',
Keyserling answered, as though roused to opposition. I could almost
watch a theory entering his restless brain on the spur of the moment
and in violent jumps. * Do you realize that death is the real goal of
all Germans? Germans see in death their final fulfilment. You must
not forget that in Germany death is the highest virtue of the hero.
To sacrifice a son on the altar of death is for a German mother
a greater honour than to have borne even a genius. This is what
distinguishes her from other mothers. To enter Valhalla is for the
German almost deification. Few of the great mysteries appeal more
to the German imagination than the death of the Niebelungen. It is
the highest deed in German mythology, the highest ideal — but few
foreigners can understand that.'

' Doesn't the idea of purity of blood and health of the race con-
tradict your statement about death?'

'Blood and race come from telluric depths. An appeal to blood
is essentially an appeal to the instinct of the earth in man. That
is the reason why appeals to the idea of race are so successful. In
the domain of worldly success, "earthly" appeals are bound to
succeed.'

*I don't quite follow.'

'Look here', Keyserling rose once again as though growing im-
patient; 'the spirit is the one thing that cannot have direct power on
earth. Spiritual power and earthly power are of two entirely different
dimensions on two different levels. The spirit cannot act on a level
that is first and foremost a level of the earth; it is a force in itself, un-
connected with the earth or with any of its expressions. It acts even

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

outside the intellect. That's why it can appeal only to a few people,
to those who are capable of producing spiritual reactions within
themselves. A nation as a whole cannot possibly follow such an
appeal; but it can follow the magnetic power which is contained in
the idea of earth and blood. You evoke with them instinctive re-
actions that do not require any " sublimation" but can manifest them-
selves spontaneously. It is wrong to oppose the message of blood
with that of the spirit as is being frequently done abroad. You must
not try to mix up spirit and blood. They are of different dimensions.
No epoch understood that contrast better than the Middle Ages.
Spirit was embodied for them in the personality of the Pope, and
flesh in that of the Emperor.'

'Do you consider men or women as the more adapted to carry
what you called the message of the spirit into the world?'

'Why, women of course! While men concentrate on activity and
achievement, women are always ready to become receivers for a
spiritual message. Twice in modern history women have carried the
message of the spirit into the world. In the days of earliest Christianity
Roman women became Christians while their menfolk remained
heathen. It was through their wives and daughters that they were
slowly converted to the Christian faith. In the early Middle Ages, in
the days of the Provencal troubadours, women created in their lives
a refinement that carried spirituality among men. Men were rough
and ready to violate women. In order to protect themselves, women
built up an atmosphere of culture and refinement that kept men at a
distance. Distance itself is congenial to spirituality. Spirit acts on the
whole better from a distance than in direct contact.'

Almost three hours had passed. I was no longer able to follow the
intellectual contortions of my host. He jumped from subject to sub-
ject with the rapidity of an acrobat, and my own brain refused to
follow him. I rose. * Must you leave? We were just beginning to have
an interesting conversation. Do come to-morrow morning to con-
tinue our talk. Meanwhile I want you to meet my wife. She plays
such an important part in my life that you cannot possibly under-
stand me without knowing her. Can you come and have tea with her
in the afternoon?'

Someone knocked at the door, and a tall and slender woman
entered the room. Countess Keyserling had dark hair and eyes, a soft,
light complexion and an engaging smile.

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III

When I returned in the afternoon Countess Keyserling was sitting
in her drawing-room preparing tea. The room with its many lamp-
shades, photographs, cushions, cigarette boxes and flowers was most
decidedly a woman's room. We sat by a window looking out on a
little garden with rose bushes and multi-coloured dahlias. Countess
Keyserling began a conversation as though she had known me for a
long time. How difficult it would have been to get over these first
twenty minutes, had we been in England! We should have spent a lot
of time with questions that required no answers and answers that were
not listened to. I did not need to inform my hostess of the crossing
I had had, or whether the drought in England was quite as bad as in
Germany. She knew what I was interested in and she began to talk
about it at once; about how her husband lived and worked, about her
children, about her own part in Keyserling's life. She spoke English
fluently, though with a German accent. Her womanliness was
emphasized by a self-consciousness that made her blush frequently.
The shyness was outbalanced by intelligence and self-assurance
evidently developed through long experience. She must have been
considerably younger than Keyserling and, while his appearance
showed little care, Countess Keyserling was dressed immaculately.

* You will be surprised when I show you my husband's bedroom,'
she said, 'not because of its ugliness — it is the ugliest room in the
house — but for the library which you will find in it.' We went up-
stairs. Indeed it was an ugly room, small, high and ill lit and cluttered
with obsolete pieces of furniture. The most noticeable features of
the room were countless bookshelves filled with books — nothing but
detective stories — there must have been hundreds of them. 'It is the
only relaxation my husband can find. He does not care for games or
the cinema; music interests him much too much; at times he spends
entire evenings at the piano improvising, but afterwards he feels more
stimulated than before; detective stories are the only natural relax-
ation that gives him peace. Often I have to read to him while he is in
bed, and that sends him to sleep.'

We returned to the ground floor, where I was shown Keyserling's
study. It was an odd, chapel-like room, dimly lit, and thousands of
books lined the walls. One side of the room was transformed into a
sort of Eastern shrine with a bronze Buddha in front of an ancient
silk hanging from China and several Chinese and Japanese pictures. '

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

This was the chapel of the parish priest for whom this house was
originally built. My husband hardly ever uses it now, spending most
of his time in his office.'

'Does your husband work very systematically and according to a
definite plan?'

'No, when he writes he almost appears to become a medium,
driven by some power from outside or rather from within himself.
He hardly knows what he is writing, and afterwards no one is more
surprised at the results than himself. The writing simply pours out
of him.'

Was it not the same with the method of his entire philosophy?
There was an astounding wealth of thought, but everything in it
appeared to be chaotic. Both in his conversation and his books I
missed the continuity of a clear structure: the relative positions of
chapters might easily be altered without doing much harm to the
book; a theme might be treated in far greater or much less detail
without affecting the whole. I had the feeling that ideas came to
Keyserling incessantly, and that he put them more or less auto-
matically on to paper, bothering little about their form. His artistic
temperament must have been alien to a proper method in his work.
Keyserling's combination of an obviously artistic disposition in his
philosophy, and of an over-abundance in its formal structure, seemed
to me one of his outstanding characteristics. It stimulated the reader's
thoughts constantly, yet it did not allow him to put the newly-found
truths into some helpful order.

When we returned to the drawing-room I asked: 'Does your hus-
band read his manuscripts to you?'

'Practically never. I only read his books after they have been pub-
lished. I have nothing to do with his professional work and we are
both absolutely independent. That's probably why we are so happy
together. When he goes abroad, especially to a new country, I hardly
ever accompany him. He likes to learn a new country by opening
himself to its impressions. In order to do that successfully he must not
feel his usual atmosphere around him. My presence would handicap
him. I am, as he calls it, his foreign and home secretary and his ex-
chequer. I give him ten marks a month for his personal expenses
which he generally brings back at the end of the month.'

4 How do your two boys like being the sons of a famous philoso-
pher?'

'They hardly ever think about it; but they consider him the most

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amusing companion they know. He treats them as friends and on the
other hand he belittles their worries and troubles and develops in
them a feeling of detachment and even irony that makes some of the
worries of a modem German child more bearable.'

When I arrived next morning at Keyserling's office, a young girl,
obviously a secretary, opened the door. I was shown instantly into
Keyserling's room, and even before we shook hands he exclaimed:
*I have just heard from Berlin. Orders from the various responsible
ministers have been sent to the local leaders; and yet they still refuse
to give me back my passport. A few weeks ago they published a
declaration that both my sons and myself had been deprived of the
Hessian and thus automatically of the German citizenship. Do you
know what that means? As they don't deprive my wife of her citizen-
ship, we shall no longer be legally married. For all you know, I am
living now with a mistress and not with my wife. They try to catch
my wife and myself where they think they can hurt us most, for they
know well how devoted we are to one another. But they don't know
me; I shall fight them to the end. They will have to use brute force to
expel a Keyserling and the grandchildren of Bismarck.'

'Do you really think they will dare to do that?' I interrupted.

'It is difficult to say; but experience teaches me that I am spared
nothing before my trials are over. That is my destiny.'

* So you believe in destiny?'

'Yes, but destiny is the privilege of only a few people: those who
have a definite individual life line. The lives of most people are
so intermingled with others — so little individual — that they can
only have a Massenschicksal, which in each particular case is just
fate.'

'Do you also believe in such signs of destiny as, for example,
astrology and handwriting?'

' I somehow believe in astrology, but it seems to me wrong to think
about it or to consult it. A disinterested belief in it is all I want for
myself. It is different with graphology. For years I have known the
man who is the real inventor of the art of graphology. His name is
M. J. Crepieux-Jamin. He is a Frenchman, still alive, though he must
be nearly eighty. He was in turn agriculturist, clockmaker and dentist.
But his main claim to fame is his wonderful gift for graphology. I

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

am praising him not because of what he said of my terrible writing
[indeed, I knew only too well how "terrible" this writing was, and
that it generally took me an hour to decipher a letter by Keyserling],
though, I confess, I am sensitive to flattery. He said that my hand-
writing reminded him both of Napoleon's and of Pascal's. I was very
pleased with this analysis, especially as I see myself as a mixture of
active vitality and sharpness of thought. Of all the many handwritings
M. Crepieux-Jamin has seen, he was most impressed by two that I
had shown him — those of Annie Besant and of Rabindranath Tag-
ore. He was so moved by the characteristics of Annie Besant's writing
that he had tears in his eyes when he analysed it.'

The only photograph in the room was a photograph of Annie
Besant with a long dedication.

'You knew Annie Besant well, didn't you?' I asked.

' I met her at Adyar in India during my trip round the world. When
we met for the first time Annie Besant approached me with all the
priestliness and paraphernalia that were expected from her by her
theosophical followers, and she asked me: "Do you know what you
were in your previous life?" To which I answered: "I am afraid my
memory is so bad that I often have the greatest difficulty in remem-
bering my present life." She looked at me for a second, and then she
laughed. We became friends for life. Often in later years, when she
was in some difficult or unhappy situation, she would write me a
letter, asking me to send her just a line: it would cheer her up. I
consider her the greatest woman politician in the world, to whom
the Indians will owe a greater debt for their Home Rule than to any-
one else. She had a greatness and unity of purpose which were quite
unique. She became President of the Theosophical Society only
because she could not become Queen of England. Yet I don't believe
in her occult powers; I never took that side of her activities seriously.
She knew that, and that was probably the reason why we were such
good friends.'

I could not refrain from asking, ' Have you ever met Krishnamurti?'

'I met him at the same time that I met Annie Besant. He was then
only a boy and a lot of nonsense was being said and done about the
little chap. I consider it his greatest achievement in later life to have
lived down the reputation of being the vehicle for the "World
Teacher", — for Christ and goodness knows what. He was a delight-
ful boy, and I was very fond of him. It was most amusing to watch
the anxiety of the theosophists, who were frightened lest I should
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FULFILMENTS

enlighten the boy to such an extent as to make him renounce his
claim to the throne of Christ. They always tried to prevent us from
conversing without witnesses. I haven't seen him since.'

'What is your opinion of him to-day?'

Keyserling got up, and took from the bookcase another of the
yellow pamphets that I had seen the day before. 'This is what I wrote
about Krishnamurti a few years ago', he said, and began to read:
' Serious people have assured me in the last few years that though
Krishnamurti may not be very great or very deep there can be no
doubt about the beauty and purity of his soul. His renunciation of his
throne showed me clearly that he is really quite an extraordinary
personality of highest moral integrity. The philosophical insuffi-
ciencies of his doctrine leave me rather helpless. . . . Judged as an
Indian he seems to me to be standing close to the spirit of Moscow.
This is also true of Gandhi, and, mutatis mutandis, even of Buddha.
On the other hand, Krishnamurti is strangely unintellectual for an
Indian. This is why he does not like to make any spiritual decisions.
If he wants to be the teacher of the whole world his attitude to-day
must be one of antagonism against religion, metaphysics, occultism.
... In his own way he is a leading representative of the religion of
godlessness.'

'You mentioned Tagore before . . .'

'Oh, welch ein Mensch! I simply adore him. I don't care for his
poems, because lyrical poetry at its best bores me; the only form of
poetry I can cope with must be dramatic or heroic. But Tagore's
genuine spirituality always showed me how great and beautiful
his character was. Nevertheless I no longer have a desire to see him;
I prefer to love him from a distance.'

Another obvious question came into my mind. It was not tactful
perhaps to examine Keyserling as to his attitude towards men who
might be considered his 'competitors'; but I considered it my duty
to know his opinion about several of those men. I asked: ' What about
Rudolf Steiner?'

'I have never met him, though you may have heard the gossip
about some quarrel between us more than ten years ago. That, how-
ever, does not alter my admiration for his enormous gifts. He pos-
sessed a genuine second sight, real occult powers and a tremendous
intellectual and spiritual knowledge; ultimately, however, I see in
Steiner the acting of an evil power.' Keyserling's words surprised me
greatly, but before I could find time to interrupt him, he continued:

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

'In the last years of his life Steiner developed a tremendous lust for
power, and finally he was eaten up by it: the cancer from which he
died was nothing else than the expression of the lust for power that
destroyed him. Cancer is a symbolical disease, and lust for power
becomes in spiritual regions black magic. Steiner's occult activities
were full of what you may call white magic; it is therefore not easy to
see a clear spiritual picture of him. I personally "feel" him as ultim-
ately bad.'

Though I knew that Keyserling's statements were utterly
unfounded, and terribly malicious, I did not care to begin a dis-
cussion which on Keyserling's part would have been based mainly on
assumptions and not on knowledge. Keyserling's information was
obviously inspired by malignant gossip, and I knew how dangerous
it was to judge a man whom one did not know personally. I went on
with my enquiries.

'What do you think of Mme. H. P. Blavatsky? Was she the
fraud that some recent books on occult subjects make her out
to be?'

'Nonsense, she was incredibly gifted. Yet it is most difficult to
understand people like her, people who are, foremost, mediums of
greater spiritual forces. In their ordinary conscious state they often
have to lie and to be frauds. Mme. Blavatsky undoubtedly often
produced false tricks with which she tried to satisfy the occult greed
of her followers, constantly awaiting miracles. But she was a genuine
occult power.'

'And Leadbeater, Annie Besant's notorious collaborator — did you
know him? . . /

Keyserling smiled as though reminded of some amusing situa-
tion. 'Indeed, I did. He, too, had genuine occult powers — in-
finitely more than Annie Besant — and it was quite true that he
suddenly "saw" occult colour images of your character, a country
or an event. But it was just like having a fine voice or eyes of a
particular colour. He was stupid, yet I liked him for his quaint mix-
ture of occult gifts and an incredible naivet£. His occultism was as
genuine as his pomposity. Which reminds me of Stefan George. You
know, many Germans consider him the greatest German since
Goethe. I never could understand why he should have exercised such
an enormous influence. His few volumes of poems could not have
done it. To me, of course, they mean very little. I imagine his success
was a success of silence. Hardly anybody knew him or ever saw him;

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FULFILMENTS

he never uttered a word except in his five or six small books; he never
received a journalist; he was hardly ever photographed. He was
silence personified, and silence impresses us Germans.'

I could not resist the temptation of asking Keyserling whether he
knew the British antithesis to the German master of silence: Bernard
Shaw. 'The most talkative man in the world', answered Keyserling;
'I know him and I am always greatly amused by him; but even in a
private conversation he remains the professional playwright or rather
the writer of prefaces to plays. He can never forget that he is Bernard
Shaw and that he has to be witty and paradoxical. This becomes
tiring. As for real spiritual values, he doesn't even know the meaning
of the word spirituality. There is not a spark of spirituality in the
whole of Shaw.'

Up till now our conversation had somewhat evaded the questions
which should have been put to a man who was first of all a spiritual
teacher. The very fact that I had not asked them, and that Keyserling
himself had hardly mentioned the subjects that might have been
touched upon in this connection, made me wonder whether he could
be called a teacher in the sense in which I had understood that word
hitherto. We generally think that in order to learn something we
have to be given directions of a very definite kind. Questions that I
had recently considered not unimportant suddenly appeared to be
merely academic. As, however, I was certain that most people would
have asked them, when faced by a man like Keyserling, I decided to
discharge them at him.

The first question was: 'Do you believe in yoga and meditations?'

'Eastern meditations are almost always useless for Western people.
The same applies, of course, to yoga. Certain Jesuit and Freemason
meditations may be useful for us. Whether to make them, or not, is
a purely individual matter which everyone has to decide for himself.
For me personally meditation has acquired in the course of years a
new meaning. Facing reality in a positive way, and without evading
it, is for my active temperament a form of meditation. If I do not
shrink from the difficulties of life, but contemplate them, then I
consider I have done my kind of meditation. Learning through direct
experience, through pain and suffering what your innermost attitude
is when facing reality, is the best form of spiritual exercise.'

My second question: 'Do you consider that we should reorganize
our sex life, that some sort of celibacy is necessary for spiritual
achievement?'

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

'General rules of this kind cannot be given, and one has to be very
careful with celibacy. Once again I must repeat that the first thing to
do is to find out about one's inner organization. The movement you
know what is individual in yourself, then you also know whether to
follow the urge of your sex or to suppress it. But remember one thing
— things that are by their very nature of a physical kind, have to be
dealt with in a physical way.'

The third question: 'Do you consider that the Churches in the
Western world are doing their duty and that they are still an im-
portant channel for the finding of truth? The American writer
Walter Lippmann said in his famous book Preface to Morals that
"Modern man no longer takes his religion as an account of the real
life of the universe". Is this state the fault of the "modern man" or
of the modern Church?'

'I am glad that there are Churches. There are a great many people
who need them and who can find happiness only through and in a
Church. For them Churches must remain. Besides, why destroy
them, even if you think you have found something better? One ought
never to destroy old institutions because one thinks one has found
better ones. This applies to cultural, political, in fact all institutions
in communal life. Old and new institutions must live on side by side:
the better ones will gradually eliminate those of less value by their
very superiority. To many people Churches mean nothing to-day:
those people follow other routes in order to find their God. I person-
ally am unable to follow anybody's authority. You may consider
that blasphemous or arrogant, but what is the good of pretending
that one believes in something if one doesn't! If I acknowledge any
individual master at all, it is Buddha: not on account of a special
superiority of his teaching, but merely for the fact that he, too, be-
lieved in no one else and in nobody's authority but his own. Most of
the other teachers speak for someone else; even Jesus Christ spoke
not in his own name but in the name of God, his Father. I myself
speak only and entirely for myself and in my own name and for that
I take the full responsibility. You don't need to listen to me, but, if
you do, you must accept that. If people find that they have to follow
a particular teacher, Steiner, Annie Besant, Krishnamurti, or Buch-
man, let them do it. But far be it from me to preach for anybody or
against anybody. You must decide for yourself whom you want to
follow.'

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Next evening I dined with the Keyserlings. There were no other
guests, and our conversation started with the same intensity and lack
of preliminaries as did the morning talks. I could see that something
in connection with the passport affair had happened. This affair had
become a kind of leitmotiv of my stay in Darmstadt, and every new
'act' of my visit began with this particular overture.

*I have received an air mail letter from my lawyer in Berlin written
this afternoon. He says that though the responsible ministers in
Berlin insist upon my being given back my passport, it's too late to
get them to restore it to me. He ends his letter with the words "you
will get your Ausburgerungsurkunde (denaturalization papers) at any
moment". Well, it seems that to-day is the last day. You will prob-
ably have the pleasure of witnessing the arrival of the police to
legalize my denationalized status. They must appear here before
midnight.'

I could not help feeling the melodramatic atmosphere around us.
We might have been acting in some detective play. When we sat
down to dinner, I asked Keyserling: 'Why haven't you answered all
the calumnies and misrepresentations about you which have been
circulated by your enemies and which are ultimately responsible
for your present state of affairs?'

'I never answer calumnies. It would be fatal against the spirit. If
you make no answer to calumnies, they go through your spiritual
self like waves, and as though you were non-existent; sooner or later
they disappear entirely. On the other hand, if you do answer them,
you evoke similar evil powers to the ones used against you, and you
will never be able to rid yourself of them.'

Keyserling went on talking. His vitality seemed even greater than
usual. He was enjoying his meal, taking huge helpings of every
course, except the sweet, of which he never partook. My critical, not
to say antagonistic, attitude of thirteen years ago was changing into
genuine sympathy. He was an impressive human animal, powerful,
vital, active and positive; conceited, arrogant, proud, egotistic and
yet generous; childlike, exuberant and almost intoxicating. It was
quite obvious that he could only be judged by his own standards,
and that it would be futile to pigeonhole him in any of the usual
human or philosophical categories. You could disagree with him,
you could dislike his manner or his selfcentredness, but you had to

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

admit that he was an exceptional, personality, and that there was an
intellectual fertility in him which few people possess. Whether his
ideas were right or wrong seemed to me to matter little. It was him-
self as a personality that counted. He appeared to me to be the very
opposite of what he had seemed to be thirteen years earlier. School,
labels, theories — all these seemed of little importance. What mattered
was Keyserling's own colourful personality.

Conversation during dinner was more personal than during our
morning talks. Even the prospects of the alarming visit that awaited
Keyserling could not upset him. He was talking of friends, of his
ancestral home, of his travels and his children. 'It may amuse you to
hear about my first meeting with Spengler, the author of Decline of
the West. It was in Munich soon after the war and, I believe, Thomas
Mann introduced us to each other. Spengler was very pompous and
every inch the author of a book of twelve hundred pages. At a cer-
tain moment during dinner he turned towards me as though he had
just solved the crucial problem of life and said: "Do you know why
the German business man is superior to bis English colleague?
Because, instead of picking up his golf clubs after his work, he sits
down to read his Tacitus".' Keyserling roared with laughter, screw-
ing up his narrow eyes and showing his teeth. 'What a knowledge
of England and of Germany! Cannot you see all the millions of
German business men rushing home in order to settle down to their
Tacitus? How typical of Spengler!'

Conversation would have gone on like that endlessly had there
not been a few more questions that I was determined to ask. 'What
is your method of work?'

'I never make plans for a new book. When my subconsciousness
is filled with enough material I suddenly think of a title or perhaps
of a date when the book should be finished. I then settle down
and write continuously for a number of weeks. I become almost a
medium and I hardly realize what the book will be like. Length, plan,
number of chapters matter nothing to me, and it is only when the
book is ready that I become conscious of all those things, and only
then do I begin to introduce them into my manuscript.' It was not
difficult to visualize this process of writing: it must have been akin to
Keyserling's manner of speech, for the latter obviously was a speaker
rather than a writer. You could see how during a conversation
thoughts were coming to him from nowhere and how conversation
stimulated him to deliver monologue after monologue. You were

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there only to suggest every now and then a new direction for the
conversation to take.

Neither Countess Keyserling nor I drank more than half a glass of
wine; Keyserling drank the rest, and also a whole bottle of champagne.
When we left the table and settled down in the drawing-room, Keyser-
ling said: 'For many years I did not drink at all. But my active
temperament prevents me from sleeping at night. Very often I don't
sleep more than an hour at night. When, however, I drink a bottle of
wine and a bottle of champagne, I can sleep. A famous doctor in
Frankfurt found out the reason for my strange reaction to wine.
Wine, instead of raising my blood pressure as it does in the case
of most people, lowers it, acting as a sedative. That's why it
makes me sleep. You can imagine what stories were invented about
me in that connection.' I preferred not to pursue the subject, and
Keyserling went on: 'People always invent stories about me, for
example, about my health. They don't understand that 1 never
get ill unless my consciousness has to do something against my
subconsciousness'.

'What do you mean by that?'

'This spring I was supposed to go on a big lecture tour to Spain.
All the seats were sold, but at the last moment I was not allowed to
go. I had to remain here, but, when the time for the first lecture
arrived, I developed a severe throat disease. When you wrote to me
in the spring suggesting that you should come at that time to see me,
I had to refuse on account of this throat trouble, which for weeks
prevented me from seeing anybody. My throat had been preparing
itself for speaking and, when the moment arrived, it simply wanted
to speak, and revolted against the enforced silence.'

Suddenly a bell rang. It was well after eleven. Keyserling himself
left the room to open the door. Countess Keyserling tried to go on
with our conversation, but we could hear voices outside. I must con-
fess that I would not have been unduly surprised if I had heard a shot.
Suddenly the door was flung wide open and Keyserling reappeared.
He was shouting at the top of his voice: 'What did I tell you, what did
I tell you? They have sent me back my passport. Look, here it is,
without any marks or changes. In the last moment their courage
failed them. Look, here it is. Didn't I tell you? My life is always like
this. Could any stage producer have managed the affair more effec-
tively?' Indeed, it was astounding. I was thankful that Keyserling's
worst anxiety was over, and that I had been able to witness this

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

incident of the passport to its conclusion. Keyserling opened another
bottle of beer, and forced me to stay for another hour.

Next morning when I arrived at his office I told him that I had
decided to leave Darmstadt that very afternoon. I had heard almost
more than I was able to digest and, after the astounding experiences
of the last few days, it would have been an anti-climax to have
lengthened my visit. I also believed that I was beginning to perceive
the meaning of Keyserling's position and 'destiny' in this decisive
period of his life. 'After our various talks during the last few days,'
I said, 'I can imagine what your aims are to-day; but I would like
to hear them from you directly. I remember the social flutter you
caused some years ago, and I can see how different things have
become. I would like to know what you have to say about it.'

For once Keyserling's answer did not come like a bullet. He
poured some black coffee into a low, red lacquer cup, which always
stood on the table, and his face, like that of an Eastern autocrat,
assumed a softness which made it most attractive but which only
rarely illumined it. More slowly than usual he said: 'You have seen
the worries I have to go through; you can picture for yourself how
difficult the last years have been. The main chapter of my new book
which I am finishing now is called "Loneliness". It is not by accident
that I had to write so much about that subject during these months.
But you have seen how cheerful I remain. Have I ever struck you
as being gloomy or depressed? Obstacles, as you know, only make
me stronger. The effect of the experiences of the last few years,
however, has been to make me withdraw more and more into my
shell. I begin to see that the outside world, people, things, events are
nothing but the attempt to keep us from losing ourselves in the
much more lively, more exciting, more bewildering and more im-
portant world of our inner selves. The older I grow the more this
seems to me the chief use and meaning of the outside world. With-
drawing into my inner self I find enough to keep me busy and happy
for the rest of my days'. He paused for a second, which he only
rarely did, but after having taken another sip of coffee he continued:
'My goal can only be to radiate spiritual reality. I don't want to
convince anyone; people must come of their own free will as you
have come, or they must ask me to visit them to deliver a lecture.

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Spirit cannot radiate through compulsion or even persuasion.
Therefore, I never try to persuade people; they must accept my words
as I put them or not at all. I don't believe in argument when we deal
with spirit. Spirit can only act in an atmosphere of perfect freedom.
Spirit has nothing to do with your brain or your intellect, which
can be forced to do this or that. The elements of spirit are faith and
courage. It needs tremendous courage to lead a life conceived by
the spirit. And you can achieve its deepest realization only if you
base it on faith. I have understood fully only in the last few years
that spirit is the highest and purest realization of faith and courage.

'To come back to your question about my success after the war — I
can only say that it wasn't my success, but a success forced upon me
by other people. It was a success of fashion and therefore quite
unreal. To-day you will find my name as a philosopher and a teacher
mentioned but little in Germany. Society has for the most part
deserted me. Look at this office: the remains of the "School of
Wisdom". And yet to-day I feel that I am having real success and
real influence. To-day individual people come to me to ask my
advice or just to listen to me. Such contacts mould people, create
spiritual readjustments. Men in responsible positions, who have
achieved worldly success, arrive here a thousand times gloomier
than I have ever been, worried, frightened about the country's and
their own future; but they find me serene, buried in my work,
writing new books, facing life as it comes, and without constructing
abstract theories. Most of them leave me cheered and strengthened.
This is more important than any books I have ever written or am
ever likely to write.

'I am willing to receive anyone and to help him personally,
because that is the only way one can help people. Through personal
contact, personal radiation of the spirit. The success of ten years
ago was sham. It is to-day that matters.'

I looked round me. The smallness and simplicity of the room — the
unpretentious furniture, the bare writing table — suddenly became
particularly striking, and I began to understand that spirit can best
be realized if the outer shell is broken. In his present loneliness Key-
serling seemed to radiate something that had remained hidden while
he was enjoying his spectacular successes. Now it seemed to matter
little whether or not chance would allow him once again to lecture
to great crowds and impress fashionable audiences. What mattered
most was that Keyserling himself had realized that only spiritual

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THE LONELINESS OF HERMANN KEYSERLING

radiation from man to man could change people and give them a
vision of truth. Thirteen years previously I had met in Darmstadt a
self-centred celebrity. To-day I was parting from a man whose
courage and serenity could not fail to be impressive. This indeed
was a fulfilment.

I felt very grateful when I got up to shake hands with Keyserling
and say good-bye.

VII

I heard a few months after my visit to Darmstadt that the German
Home Secretary, Dr. Frick, wrote to Keyserling personally to tell
him that he had officially cancelled all the decisions of the local
authorities in Darmstadt. A few days later the Government Gazette
published a declaration officially restoring German citizenship to
Keyserling and his sons. In November 1934 Keyserling was invited
to deliver a public lecture in Berlin.

Once again Keyserling could go abroad. The congress in Spain,
that he had had to cancel in the spring, could take place early in
1935. After the congress, Keyserling lectured all over Spain and
later on in Italy and in Paris, and his tours were a great
success. He was acclaimed wherever he went. Joan Estelrich, the
great Catalan poet and historian, expressed the opinion of his coun-
try when he wrote: 'Our cultural life is inspired in these weeks by
the presence and the lectures of Count Keyserling. He is a true
champion and a knight of the spirit. ... In these days of mass
activities and equality he preaches the value of personality. In these
days of machine work and imitation he emphasizes the importance
of creativeness. In these days of social and economic preoccupations
he acknowledges the spirit.'

The inner fulfilment seemed to be finding its external reward.

235

CHAPTER II
THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

When I set out to find for myself the "Testament" of Rudolf
Steiner I knew that the object of my pursuits had not died
with its maker. Though I had not kept up a direct contact with
anthroposophy I knew that it had developed from a stage of investi-
gation and discovery to one of practical work and acknowledged
achievement.

The Anthroposophical Society had suffered the same fate to
which so many movements crystallized round one man have been
submitted. After Steiner's death it had split into two sections. The
more official section, with its headquarters at the Goetheanum at
Dornach, was led by Steiner's widow and the famous Swiss poet,
Albert Steffen; the other included some of Steiner's closest friends
and several of the leading personalities in the movement.

But anthroposophy had become too important a movement to be
affected by personal disagreements, and was being absorbed even
by people who had no direct contact with it as a movement.

The Anthroposophical Society, too, was growing steadily; to-day
there is hardly a country without its branch. Though the membership
may be just under 20,000 the number of people connected with
anthroposophy must be many times greater. In New Zealand, in
Java, in South Africa, and even in Honolulu there are either
branches of the Society, or anthroposophical farmers, doctors,
educationists.

There were small anthroposophical groups in England even before
the war, but a society was not established till after Steiner had
delivered a series of lectures in this country during the summer
of 1923. The countries in which his ideas had most effect were
Germany, Switzerland, Holland, Austria, Czechoslovakia. It is
difficult to say how far they have invaded English life; but, if books
are at all a reliable measure of the popularity of a doctrine, Steiner
must be far more widely known in England than is indicated by the
infrequent appearances of his name in the press. Steiner's own
literary legacy is enormous. Close on a hundred of his books have

236

THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

been translated into English — some of them volumes of many
hundreds of pages. There are probably few scientists or philosophers
who have left a larger bulk of work.

The external growth of the anthroposophical movement showed
that it was strong enough at its founder's death to withstand even
the dangers of organization and discipleship. In a way the rapid
growth of the movement is surprising. Steiner himself insisted over
and over again that such a manysided doctrine as his could not be
forced like a hothouse plant. Hence his aversion to all forms of self-
advertisement. Unlike Annie Besant, he was not a showman and
was opposed to propaganda. It was not without significance that
the founder of anthroposophy was not a German but an Austrian.
Many of the most valuable elements in Germany's spiritual and
cultural life originated not in Germany but in the countries sur-
rounding her.

I went first to Dornach to the Goetheanum, and found there
everything exactly as I had expected it: a huge impressive building—
a monument in cement to its dead creator — studios, laboratories,
devoted discipleship and scholarly research work. But I preferred
to cut my time for studying the Goetheanum, and to go farther in
my search of the living testament of Steiner.

Except for my visit to Dornach and my much later visits to several
of Steiner's former friends and pupils, I expressly abstained during
my journey through Central Europe from arranging any meetings
with anthroposophists, and preferred to wait and see whether I
should come across their activities in the ordinary course of events.
Though I only spent a short time on the Continent my luck was
extraordinary, and I realized that anthroposophy had become one
of the few spiritual movements of our time that have penetrated
into almost every field of human activity.

I went first to stay with someone on a country estate not far from
Berlin. I arrived late at night, but before taking me up to my room
my host said: 'By the way, I hope you won't mind a guest who is
coming here to-morrow for the day. I had invited him before I
knew that you were coming to Germany — so I couldn't put him off.
But I am sure you'll like him. He is a young minister.'

I forgot all about the minister till his arrival after breakfast next
morning. He had a frank and intelligent face, and had preserved a

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FULFILMENTS

boyish spontaneity, which expressed itself in sudden bursts of laugh-
ter. He was minister at one of the Christian Community churches
which had been established in connection with anthroposophy, and
he left one in no sort of doubt as to his devotion to his profession.
There was something impressive in his idealism, which made me
feel that, if all the ministers of his church possessed his burning
faith, Steiner's Christian Community might indeed improve the
spiritual life of Germany.

It was a warm, sunny day, and we spent most of it walking in the
park, the while Herr M. discoursed to me on one of the last chapters
of Rudolf Steiner's testament.

'How was it', I asked, 'that Steiner who was against the establish-
ment of a new church, and who always emphasized the fact that
anthroposophy is not a religion and does not want to create dogmas,
became head of such a church?'

The Herr Pfarrer flushed. 'That is not true', he exclaimed, and
his words tumbled over one another in his eagerness to dispel my
ignorance. *I fear you have utterly wrong notions of our church and
of its history. You must have been as misinformed as the rest. The
doctor always insisted that he was not establishing a new church.'
(Steiner was always referred to as the "doctor".) 'He was only the
adviser and "spiritual inspirer" of a church created by professional
theologians of their own desire.'

'How, then, did it all begin?' I interrupted.

'I am glad that you offer me a chance of giving you a brief history
of our church', replied the young minister. 'Some two years after
the war small groups — comprising both laymen and ministers —
formed themselves in various towns. These people realized that the
Evangelical church was losing its influence, and were therefore
anxious to infuse new vitality into it. They had no connection with
one another, but several of them had heard of Steiner's extraor-
dinary pronouncements on Christianity. In 1921 some of them
visited him. When they asked him if he believed in the possibility
of a religious revival through deeper spiritual knowledge, Steiner
affirmed that he did, and promised to give them definite instructions,
provided they visited him as a whole group. The young men — for
most of them were men of between 20 and 30 — assembled in June at
Stuttgart, where Steiner gave them his first "Lecture Course for
Theologians". He promised that if they would find, say, ten times
as many young men genuinely anxious for the future of the church,

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THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

and willing to work seriously for its reformation, he would tell them
more. Such a group collected in Dornach, and Steiner gave them
six lectures which contained perhaps the profoundest things said
in our time about religion. You may have heard how impressed
orthodox theologians were when Steiner spoke to them about
Christ.'

'Yes, Friedrich Rittelmeyer writes about that in his book on
Steiner,' I answered.

"Rittelmeyer was present at many of those lectures. In fact
Rittelmeyer had always been the head of our church — not Steiner.
But to come back to my account — these young men were so deeply
moved and shaken in their traditional beliefs by what Steiner said
in his lectures that they decided to form a new religious community,
based on Steiner's revelations. The widow of the German poet
Christian Morgenstern invited the young men into her house, or
rather put at their disposal the stables in her country place, and it
was there that the new constitution of the church was evolved
after many weeks' hard work. Though Steiner approved of it, he
went on repeating that he must be considered merely as an adviser
and spiritual mediator of the new church. His main concession was
that, by the laying on of hands, he ordained, at an inaugural
ceremony in September 1922, Dr. Rittelmeyer who, as you
probably know, had been for years one of the leaders of the
Evangelical church in Germany and one of the most distin-
guished preachers of our day. Afterwards Rittelmeyer ordained a
number of young ministers who wished to serve the new religious
community.'

"What is new in your church?'

'The doctor was asked one day to explain the difference between
anthroposophy and our creed. He answered: "Anthroposophy
addresses itself to man's need for knowledge and brings knowledge;
the Christian Community addresses itself to man's need for resurrec-
tion and brings Christ.'"

*In what sense am I to understand this?' I asked.

'We try to disseminate that magic reality which Christ has instilled
into every church. In most churches that power has been cloaked
with so many obscure forms and ceremonies that it has become
unintelligible, no matter how willing the congregation may be to
take an active part in it. In our church we try to make everything,
including the language, clear. Our religious service helps to penetrate

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FULFILMENTS

to the very roots of religion. We use no Latin: we use the language
of the country in which the service is being held. Our congregation
is conscious of what is happening during the service, it collaborates
with the minister, and is not lulled into lazy self-contentment. I don't
think you can say the same of the congregations of most of the older
churches.'

Ill

After my visit to Berlin, during which I had tried to find the new
German gods, I proceeded to the Rhineland to stay with a friend.
Though towns may furnish us with more facts and give us a more
varied picture of existing conditions, it is on the land that we meet
with those ambitions and beliefs which in the cities are concealed
beneath a veneer of official pronouncements.

The chief hobby of my friend at whose house I was going to stay
was the cultivation of a magnificent garden with fruit, flowers and
vegetables in profusion. On previous visits I had always been taken
soon after my arrival for a walk through it. Since I arrived just
before dinner it was arranged that I should see the garden next
morning. * You'll find great changes in the garden', my friend said;
'it is cultivated in an entirely different manner. I run it on biological-
dynamic methods.'

'What methods?' I asked.

'The methods discovered by Rudolf Steiner. Many of the more
advanced landowners and gardeners in Germany apply them nowa-
days. I shall tell you no more. You can judge for yourself to-morrow
morning.'

The real surprise came during dinner. My friends had two chil-
dren, and the little boy had been suffering from mastoid. Since
the house was in the middle of the country the doctor had to come
a long way from town, and it was generally arranged that he should
stay for lunch or dinner. In fact, he was to dine with us that very
evening. My hostess said that she was anxious for me to meet the
doctor, who had succeeded in his treatment of her children where
specialists from Cologne had failed. He applied anthroposophical
methods, and he was at the head of a hospital for children in a
neighbouring town.

I was not favourably impressed at first, for his voice and manner
were unpleasantly Germanic in their impatient and arrogant tone;
but during dinner I had to admit that in his knowledge of human

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THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

nature he far surpassed the average German doctor. His pro-
fessional success proved that his knowledge was not merely
theoretical.

*I had been a doctor for almost fifteen years,' he said, 'before I
discovered anthroposophical medicine. Naturally I was very sceptical
at first, and I looked upon it as a new form of quackery. Then I
read one of Rudolf Steiner's lectures to doctors, and was amazed
at his deep insight into the very essence of medicine. That induced
me to read more about anthroposophy and Steiner. Eventually I
decided to undergo a proper anthroposophical training, and I
worked for over a year like a young student. I think I can claim that
since then my understanding of the human body and the human
being is deeper than that of my colleagues, who base their knowledge
on the usual medical study and experience alone.'

Next morning my friend took me round the garden. At dinner
the night before I noticed how good the home-grown vegetables
had been. Yet the determination to remain impartial made me, if
anything, more sceptical than I should normally have been, even
when my friend bade me compare the flowers, fruit and vegetables
grown according to the new methods with those near by which, for
reasons of experiment, were still cultivated in the ordinary way.
My friend took me to a section of a field where tomatoes had been
grown. Those grown under the old methods in one corner were much
smaller than the others.

'Do you know the reason for this difference?' my friend asked.
'The bigger tomatoes were sown exactly forty-eight hours before
full moon; the others were sown at some other time.'

'Is this the only difference?' I enquired incredulously.

*Yes, otherwise they have been treated in exactly the same way.
Sowing in accordance with planetary constellations is one of the
many new methods revealed by Steiner.'

I was shown that not only human beings but animals also noticed
the superior quality of food grown according to Steiner's methods.
'Since we have begun to manure and cultivate some of our fields
by the new method,' my friend explained, 'neither cows nor sheep
will graze on other fields. As it takes time to reorganize all the fields,
it has become something of a problem to satisfy our "gourmet"
ft 241

FULFILMENTS

cattle.' The same was true of the chickens: since they had been fed
on food grown in the new manner, they were most reluctant to eat
ordinary food.

When I arrived back in England I immediately settled down to an
intensive study of anthroposophy in ordinary life. England with her
slowness in adopting new methods and her mistrust of 'foreign
improvements' was hardly the ideal country for such investigations,
On the other hand, the very conservatism of English life, by pre-
venting any exaggerated enthusiasm, would show the intrinsic
value of the new method.

The strong position of theosophy in England impeded the growth
of anthroposophy. While on the Continent many who were once
theosophists had begun to follow Steiner, in England only few such
conversions had occurred. Theosophy was emphatically a British
movement; its leader had been for many years an Englishwoman
and its European headquarters were in London. In spite of all this I
soon discovered that anthroposophy had entered deeper into English
life than was at first apparent.

It is impossible to give exact figures as to the present state of the
anthroposophical movement in Great Britain. The number of far-
mers, educationists and doctors who are adopting Steiner's method
is constantly increasing. Even the sales of Steiner's books are grow-
ing; and yet his books are written in a style which does not make
for easy reading. Mr. H. Collison, Steiner's English translator, told
me that 'the doctor' would make no concessions of style in the
translation of his books. Mr. Collison had suggested that it would be
helpful in places to simplify the English version, since the English
mind was not trained in the same way as the German. Steiner
replied that such a concession to the laziness of a reader would be a
departure from truth. He considered that to make his books easier
to read would be an unworthy concession of truth to personal profit.
He preferred to wait till the books became popular on their own
account.

I was anxious to see if I should find in England the remarkable
results of Steiner's agricultural theories which I had found on the
Continent, for the climatic and agricultural conditions of the two

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THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

countries differed considerably from one another. As far as I could
judge, after visiting several English farms run on anthroposophical
lines — mine is, of course, not the opinion of an expert farmer —
Steiner's methods had been carried out in this country with similar
results.

Steiner called his agricultural discoveries the biological-dynamic
method. One might say that, beginning with the name 'anthro-
posophy', most of the terminology of the movement is particularly
cumbersome; but, as Steiner would never allow the slightest dis-
tortion of truth, the necessity for these names becomes evident.
He could not possibly descend to the modern fashion of concocting
slick and easy names that had but little connection with the funda-
mental truth of the object. In calling his agricultural system the
'biological-dynamic method' he acknowledged that life is a mani-
festation of forces : so if we want to influence these forces we must
work dynamically.

Steiner formulated his agricultural methods as lately as in 1924, a
year before his death. Though his method required a revolutionary
change in one of the most conservative of human activities, it was
widely accepted within a few years. Steiner himself warned his
followers that his suggestions could not produce much result in
anything much under four years. Nevertheless there are to-day on
the Continent over a thousand farms, landed properties and market
gardens run according to his ideas. Even in Great Britain, the last
European country to follow up Steiner's suggestions, several farms
have introduced his method.

Steiner expounded his agricultural ideas at a special series of
lectures to a gathering organized by a leading agricultural expert,
Count Carl Keyserlingk, who controlled a number of landed pro-
perties in Silesia. Steiner's lectures were arranged for professional
agriculturists only, and they are the basis of his whole biological-
dynamic method. The experts attending these lectures were so
impressed by them that an experimental circle was founded in order
to test them. Soon afterwards similar bodies were created in various
parts of the country. To-day there are some two thousand experi-
mental stations, gardens and farms, all over the world.

Steiner's agricultural methods are based on his acknowledgement
of the earth as a living organism, not unlike a human being, and the
need for it to be treated accordingly. Intimately related to this is his
warning that humanity will probably die of starvation within the

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next hundred years if it does not abandon the use of agricultural
remedies containing chemical poisons. He drew the attention of
his listeners to the generally acknowledged fact that most of
the soils in the so-called civilized countries are sick as a result
of the use of artificial manures which, incidentally, have not been
invented to help agriculture but to use up the superfluous wastes in
chemical production. Our soils have become so encrusted, solidified
and sour that they can be kept healthy only by heavy doses of
lime.

The New Statesman and Nation published in 1932 an article on
Steiner's agricultural methods, and admitted that his thesis of the
death of the soil was a scientific truth. 'Steiner's theory', it read,
'was that we are stimulating the earth and its products to the detri-
ment of both. . . . Agriculturist and horticulturist keep the earth in a
state of feverish and unhealthy activity. ... At first his ideas were
treated with contempt, but of late there has been no lack of medical
evidence in their support. ... It is impossible in the face of the evi-
dence to avoid an uneasy feeling that the modern stimulus of pro-
duction is accountable for the spread of disease in the vegetable,
animal and human kingdom. . . .' Before concluding his article the
writer asks the important question: 'Is it not reasonable to suppose
that there is a limit to the stimulus that may be applied to the lands
for the forcing of crops?'

Legitimate agriculture and medicine are constantly giving us new
proofs that the intrusion of chemicals into agriculture in the form of
ready-made manure, sprays, bug killers and fertilizers destroys
both the quality of the soil and of the products grown on it. The
Swiss Cheese Federation, one of Switzerland's most important
economic bodies, decided that no cows were to be allowed on pas-
tures situated under trees sprayed with poisonous mixtures, and that
none of their manure was to be treated with the usual chemical
stimulants, such as iron sulphate or super-phosphates.

Steiner, for whom life and nature are an indivisible whole, regards
nature as in a constant state of fluctuation, of evolution — that is,
in short, as something dynamic. A farm, or indeed any agricultural
unit, is for him an organism with an inner living current. You cannot
treat it merely as an economic unity without considering its living
faculties. The same inner balance that exists in the human body
must be maintained in a farm. There should be enough cattle to
produce all the manure required, and the amount of pasture and of

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THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

the various products, such as corn, vegetables and fruit, should be
balanced in such a way as to make the farm as self-supporting as
possible under modern conditions.

Steiner demands an even more subtle form of acknowledgement
of the living character of a farm. Suppose someone buys an old farm
and tries to modernize it. He pulls down an old barn, builds a garage,
cuts down some trees and rearranges his fields. In its long existence
the farm has developed its individuality and has become one body
of which the different fields, buildings or trees are the various
limbs — and a limb cannot be cut away without a disturbance of the
inner balance which will prove detrimental to the whole. The fields,
trees or plants will probably yield less. Such a method can only be
avoided if the new owner tries to enter into the ancient spirit of the
farm, if he lives in it long enough to be imbued with its individuality
deeply enough to understand both its visible and its invisible
unity and its inner equilibrium. Only then will he begin to know
where improvements should be introduced, where the farm is
'tired' of an old tree, where it requires the replanting of a field.
Some old- fashioned farmers, 'born' with a genius for their job, feel
instinctively those hidden relations and necessities of their farm.
Steiner's followers do not base their knowledge on such instincts
(possessed only by a few), but on scientific discoveries. These dis-
coveries were initiated by Steiner, and developed later on by farmers
themselves and in special laboratories.

VII

How can the earth be saved from premature death? The answer
of the biological-dynamic method to this is: By intensification of its
living qualities and by elimination of all methods that kill it. This
applies most of all to the chemical poisons that have been introduced
into agriculture in modern times. The soil must not be stimulated
artificially, but its natural functions must be enhanced, and this
cannot be achieved by introducing dead matter in the form of
chemicals.

Anthroposophical farmers produce their own manure out of
natural remnants to be found on the farm, such as animal dung,
vegetable remnants, old foliage, bones and other natural refuse.
Out of such remnants large compost heaps are built, and such
plants and herbs are added to them as have beneficial effects upon

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FULFILMENTS

our health. Steiner indicated that the following six plants should
be used for that purpose: dandelion, yarrow, nettle, valerian,
camomile and oak rind. The qualities of those plants are streng-
thened by a special preparation, and their use engenders in the soil
the same chemical processes that are caused by artificial manure,
but instead of being forced upon the soil suddenly, those processes
grow in it organically. There is no sudden stimulation, no sudden
shock as with ready-made manures, the natural faculties of the soil
are intensified. Special sprays are used for the prevention of diseases,
the principal one being made of silica. But it, once again, is not used
in an artificial but in its natural form as part of equisetum tea. Every
farmer should himself understand the production of these manures
and sprays.

Scientific examination has shown that soils treated in this way
contain much more of the microbes necessary for the working of a
soil than is usual, whilst their products contain far fewer of the harm-
ful microbes than are found in other products.

Once we realize that the soil and the farm, with everything that
lives and grows on it, are living organisms and parts of a far greater
macrocosm, we must acknowledge the relations between them and
other parts of the universe. Not only are the four seasons, the sun,
the wind, and the rain parts of the universe that affect the earth and
life upon it; the influence of the other planets and of the moon is of
equal importance. I was taken over a wheatfield on one of the
anthroposophical farms in England. One section of the field was
planted exactly forty-eight hours before the full moon and other
sections ten and twenty hours later. While the wheat planted
forty-eight hours before full moon grew evenly and fully, the rest
of the field showed uneven green patches of varying size and thick-
ness.

Steiner would explain to his pupils his own spiritual perception
of a new discovery and he would then ask his agricultural colla-
borators to test it in the usual scientific way. In most cases he also
indicated the exact method of the required test. The research work
in laboratories always proved that both his discovery and his pre-
scription for the experiment werejight; and there is already a huge
volume of scientific evidence testifying to the correctness of his
perceptions.

Steiner explained why it is better to sow the seed in the after-
noon, when the earth is, so to speak, breathing in, and is more

246

THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

inclined to take the seed into her womb; why the watering of plants
and the application of manure, especially liquid manure, should
be done in the evening; why reaping and harvesting should be done
in the early morning hours; why seeds should be sown during the
waxing of the moon; why plants, vegetables and flowers remain
much fresher when cut in the very early morning; why the influence
of the planets and the moon are able to work upon the substances
in the earth only when these are no longer in a solid state; in what
way the planet Jupiter affects the metal tin, the Moon — silver,
Saturn — lead, and the Sun — gold.

There was nothing mysterious in Steiner's indications of the con-
nection of life with the planetary system. Steiner discovered that
there is a connection between the rhythms of the various planets
and the rhythms that regulate our life. 'They correspond', he once
said, * in the same way that the movements of a clockhand correspond
to the course of the sun — though we could hardly say that the sun
turned the wheels. The relations point to a common origin but
neither is produced by the other.'1 The establishment of exact
relationships between the various rhythms showed the working of
inner laws in nature, the knowledge of which was most important
in agricultural work.

Steiner's instructions were not limited to plants alone. They dealt
with animals, insects, minerals — in short, with all the organisms
and their manifold interrelations with agriculture. His investigations
even established clear connections between the various planets and
the life and work within a beehive.

The practical results of only one aspect of the biological-dynamic
method may be illustrated by another quotation from the article
written in the New Statesman and Nation: 'At X., where there are
a few fields, cultivated on the Steiner method,' the writer says,
'I have seen lately fruit and vegetables of outstanding quality,
so excellent, indeed, that hard-headed shopkeepers in the nearest
large town will pay more than the current market prices for
them.'

Though Steiner gave his followers very exact laws, he warned
them not to cling fanatically to any given instruction but to establish
its truth in their own experience. No two moments in life are equal, he
said, no two instances of it can be treated identically. The same free-
dom of action which he preached with regard to people, he also

1 Paths of Experience (Lecture on the Moon), transl. by H. Collison, 1934.

247

FULFILMENTS

insisted upon when speaking of the earth, the plants or the animal
kingdom.

There is no doubt that in England it will take longer than in many
other countries for Steiner's agricultural methods to be adopted
as a whole. The need is at present not so great as in most European
countries, for the dampness of the British climate counteracts the
deleterious effect of chemicals upon the soil, which, too, unlike the
soil of many European countries, has not been forced to yield more
than is good for it. The conservatism of the English farmer, ever
suspicious of innovations, prevented much harm coming to the soil.
The English fanner was one of the last to adopt the method of
chemical cultivation.

VIII

Steiner's medical principles were presented to professional
physicians in two courses of. lectures in 1920 and 1921. Some of
these discoveries were not entirely new — though they had been
neglected for centuries. Steiner's aims in medicine were to restore
'in a new form the old condition where the art of healing was bound
up with the spiritual knowledge of man and the world*. 'In the
mysteries,' Steiner said, referring to the ancient mysteries, 'these
two were connected and this connection must be regained.'

The first practical and visible result of Steiner's lectures to doctors
was the foundation by the Dutch woman doctor, Ita Wegman, of a
clinical and therapeutical Institute at Arlesheim in Switzerland,
which became the base for Steiner's further medical investigations.
In later years clinics of a similar kind were founded in other coun-
tries.

One of Steiner's most important discoveries in the field of medicine
was the acknowledgement of a threefold dynamic order in man. Man
comprises for Steiner three different systems: a nervous system,
which is the seat of consciousness and includes all nervous functions
and all functions of sense; a metabolic system which includes man's
unconscious functions, such as digestion with its many processes
resulting in the formation of blood; and a rhythmical system which
functions between the two. The rhythmical system is centred in the
heart and the blood, and expresses itself in breathing and in the
circulation of the blood.

Such a division can, of course, be applied to the living man alone.
In Steiner's dynamic order the nervous system is the basis of our

248

THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

thought; the rhythmical of our feelings; and the metabolic of our
will. The nervous system builds up our spiritual consciousness but
destroys organic life. We see its example in the constant destruction
by thought of the smallest entities in the brain, or in the using up of
the retina in the eye through the process of seeing. The metabolic
system builds up our unconscious faculties and our formative powers.
Thus a living organism is for Steiner a current in which constant
creation and constant destruction take place. These two forces
produce a necessary balance, and that balance is responsible for
all the rhythm in life.

Steiner's medical theories resulted in the establishment of what
might be called a new medical science, new, that is, in the method of
diagnosis, therapy and the production of medicines.

Steiner formulated exact methods of diagnosis, based on clair-
voyant examination, but not limited merely to doctors with certain
spiritual faculties and open to any medical man. Steiner insisted
that the examining doctor should consider the original mental
and organic state of the patient, and should retrace in his diagnosis
the course of the illness step by step. The process of healing, too,
should be a backward reconstruction of the illness, till the original
normal state is reached.

In his medical discoveries Steiner went one step further than
Goethe's famous discovery of the formative powers in a plant,
known as the Urpflanze. Just as Goethe had found that the leaf holds
the secret of the whole plant, Steiner recognized that in each indi-
vidual part of the human organism the same formative life powers
act that are responsible for the whole. Exactly as the seed contains
already all the elements of the future tree, so does every individual
organ disclose the dynamic faculties of the entire body.

Founding his medical discoveries on his truly cosmological
knowledge, Steiner established the natural connections that exist
between the various human organs and plants, animals and minerals.
By doing this he indicated the way of anthroposophical therapy.

The truth of Steiner's medical * visions' was proved in practical
investigations, and it became the basis even of a new pharmaceutic
science.

The anthroposophical farmer had to abstain from using artificial
manure; the anthroposophical doctor must have at his disposal

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FULFILMENTS

entirely new medicines. Man is an image of the macrocosm. Corres-
ponding laws and powers act both in man and in nature. In order
to make use of those laws in medicine they must be co-ordinated
and their relationship must be established.

Anthroposophical doctors claim that they not only remove illness
or pain but that they heal. Many of the pharmaceutical products
as used nowadays do not heal the patient but merely kill the disease.
Even among ordinary doctors it is admitted more and more that
such remedies can leave within the body harmful effects that are
bound to show themselves sooner or later. Though the actual illness
has been destroyed, the foundations of a new one may have been
laid.

In establishing the cosmological connections between the organs
and functions of the human body and the corresponding minerals,
plants and animals, anthroposophical pharmacy adopted a number
of the herbs, plants and minerals, and even methods of healing,
to which people resorted centuries ago. In anthroposophical phar-
macy an attempt is made to produce the medicine in accordance
with the processes in the human body for which the medicine will be
used. A certain medicine will be manufactured at the exact tempera-
ture of the human blood, and others in the same rhythm which
operates in the organs for which each of them is meant. Thus
anthroposophical pharmacy acknowledges the direct relationship
existing between the living forces in nature and the working of the
human body. The manufacture of anthroposophical medicines may
be called a living process, that of ordinary medicines a mechanical
one.

Medical-pharmaceutical laboratories were established by Steiner's
medical collaborator, Dr. Ita Wegman. Similar establishments
have been founded since in most of the capitals of the world, and
even non-anthroposophical doctors are beginning slowly to employ
their medicines.

Anthroposophical medical science claims to have discovered a
number of remedies for various diseases that have hitherto seemed
almost incurable. A number of ordinary doctors have accepted
anthroposophical remedies for malaria and consumption. Of other
anthroposophical cures the most important are those for anaemia,
seasickness and rheumatism. Rudolf Steiner's doctrine that man's
mind cannot be ill because it is of a divine nature and that only
the body in which the mind is placed can be responsible for the

250

THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

disease, produced new methods in the treatment of mental distur-
bances.

The most important discoveries seem to be those made in connec-
tion with the treatment of cancer. Steiner saw and comprehended
the connection between cancer and the phenomenon of mistletoe
blossoming forth at the place where a tree develops an unnatural
growth. A tumour is a parasite which absorbs many of the life forces
of a body; the mistletoe sucks out the living forces of a tree and stores
up within itself those powers that originally belonged to the tree.
Steiner showed the deeper relation between the two, and advised
his medical assistants to work out his suggestions scientifically.
This resulted in an entirely new cure for cancer. Most of the cancer
cases treated by the Anthroposophical Centre at Arlesheim were
those that had been abandoned by ordinary doctors, and in many
of them the new method proved successful. And yet for a number of
years the cure was severely handicapped by a technical difficulty
which was not overcome till 1933. Steiner suggested that special
mixtures of the various mistletoe juices required for the injection
ought to be mixed under conditions in which the influence of the
speed of the earth could be eliminated. A mixing instrument had
to be constructed in which the speed of the earth could be out-
balanced by the speed of the instrument. It took over ten years for
science to produce a steel strong enough to withstand the terrific
centrifugal force created by the speed of the container in which the
mixture was to be made.

Some of the anthroposophical scientists claim to have discovered
means of diagnosing cancer in the human blood long before the
disease is localized or the patient is even aware of it himself. It is
claimed that these blood examinations combined with the mistletoe
injections have already produced results which are more striking
than those of any other method. Several medical journals have
begun to write of those cases.

I had heard and read much of Steiner's educational system and
was particularly anxious to see one of those establishments in which
his combined educational and medical methods were practised. I am
referring to that most difficult form known as the curative education
of under-developed children. On account of paralysis, idiocy, epilepsy

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FULFILMENTS

or some similar disease such children have to be specially treated.
The main home for curative education in England is situated in a
large park in Clent, not far from Birmingham, and was founded by
an admirer of Steiner's methods. The cures are based on Steiner's
educational instructions and on a therapy and medicinal treatment
established by anthroposophy. Several of the sixty or seventy children
whom I saw had been pronounced incurable and had been at the
home only a few months. They had so far recovered as to be singing
songs round a Christmas tree; some of them were playing instru-
ments and others were beginning to read and write or paint little
pictures. Orthodox doctors considered the results achieved in this
home as verging on the miraculous.

To carry out Steiner's educational principles the teacher must
have considerable medical knowledge. Steiner bases his educational
work on the conviction that at the ages of seven, fourteen and twenty-
one fundamental changes take place in the human being. They are
expressed by the cutting of the second teeth, puberty and the attain-
ment of full growth.

Steiner established the theory of an inter-dependence of these
turning points in the life of the child and its corresponding spiritual
phases, and the growth and change in its physical organs. According
to him, the whole life process in a child up to seven is occupied in
building up the head and the nerve centres; after the second teeth
it is occupied more with the chest system, the breathing and the
circulation of the blood, and from the age of fourteen upwards it
develops the child's metabolism. According to Steiner, 'until the
change of teeth the human body has a task to perform upon itself
which is essentially different from those set for other periods. . . .
What has been neglected before the seventh year can never be made
good.' Out of such considerations come instructions for the teacher.
'In this period,' Steiner says, 'moralizing and appeals are useless.
. . . Whatever goes on in the surroundings of the child will be imitated.
. . . The child is first wholly sense organ. Sense perceptions are closely
bound to the child's emotions and will . . . there is a unity of body,
soul and spirit. This is why it is impossible for a child to keep still
when it notices anything. It functions in all its faculties at every
stimulation. The adult person transplants sense experiences first into
thought and transforms them into knowledge; the child acts in-
stantly.' For a child up to seven the example of the teacher is of
paramount importance.

252

THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

Steiner gave many interesting examples of the effect of a teacher
upon the child. 'If the choleric temperament of the teacher', he
once wrote, 'expresses itself too vehemently it gives the child
a shock which can have results later. ... It appears in the years
from forty-five to fifty as digestive troubles. . . . Other tempera-
ments in the teacher can be equally devastating in disorganizing
the nervous system, creating illnesses of the breathing and blood
circulation.'

Steiner showed with particular clearness the connection between
faults of education and rheumatism in later life. He made the im-
portant pronouncement that for a country as a whole to contain a
large percentage of rheumatic people denotes faults in its educational
system.

In Steiner's opinion, the child can be influenced from without
only after the age of seven. It begins to dream vaguely and sees
life as a sequence of pictures. Therefore emphasis should be laid
on the use of pictures, images, fairy tales. Imagination should be
guided. 'A child until the change of teeth', Steiner said, 'expresses
its soul life most strongly through the movements of the limbs.
Afterwards it lives more in the rhythm of its breathing and blood
circulation. It instinctively responds to everything presented in
rhyme, rhythm and measure.' This is where special emphasis is laid
on eurhythmy.

Music, painting, drawing, modelling, woodwork are applied in
anthroposophical education always in accordance with the particular
stage of spiritual and physical development. Steiner showed what
connections exist between the various forms of painting and the
character of the child. ' Choleric children like vermilion and bright
yellow and express their temperament happily and healthily if they
are allowed to play about with these colours for a time', Steiner
instructed anthroposophical teachers. 'Melancholic children love
pale lilac and a rather deeper blue and grow more cheerful if they
are allowed to express their more sober natures with these colours.
The sanguine child's painting is characterised by the repetition, with
rhythmic modifications, of some particular motive; while phlegmatic
children express themselves in large patches of a single colour.
Painting also discovers morbid conditions, such as digestive dis-
turbances. . . .'

The above example shows us a fraction of Steiner's educational
theories. But there was nothing autocratic in his instructions to

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FULFILMENTS

teachers: they were suggestions rather than strict rules, and the
teacher had to modify them according to the individual case.

In 1919 the 'Waldorf School' in Stuttgart was inaugurated. It was
the first practical example on a big scale of Steiner's educational
ideas. In pre-Nazi days, with over a thousand pupils, it was the
biggest school in Germany. It is interesting to read the description
of some aspects of the school which was given by the Government
official who was sent to inspect it on behalf of the Ministry of Educa-
tion. 'I must put on record*, says the official inspector, 'the fact that
the college of teachers with its high moral standard and intellectual
attainments gives the Waldorf School its peculiar quality. A staff of
teachers in such a close bond of union, working in the same spirit
and filled with the same warmth of enthusiasm, cannot but bring
their feeling of unity to daily expression. . . . The literary scholars
and humanists are introduced by the mathematicians and scientists
to the domain of mathematics and science . . . and the humanists
help the scientists. . . . The whole of the professional work of the
teachers is filled with and upborne by the same spirit . . . such as
could scarcely be found in the same degree in any other school in
the land.'1

There are anthroposophical schools in seven other German towns2 ;
also in Switzerland, Austria, Norway, Sweden, England and the
United States. There are curative homes for children in a number of
countries, and there are special classes for teachers and doctors at
the Goetheanum at Dornach and in Arlesheim.

The field of anthroposophical activity which least impressed me
was art. This is not surprising. Steiner's perceptions could open the
doors to a wider and truer knowledge in many fields; but they could
not create artists or replace lack of genius by a deeper understanding
of truth. I came across anthroposophical pictures which may have
been painted with greater consciousness than other pictures; but they
lacked vigour in their design and their colouring was sentimental.
Altogether they were too theoretical to be impressive. I have no

lThe Free Waldorf School at Stuttgart, by F. Hartlieb, 1928. (English trans-
lation, edited by H. Collison.)

'All these schools as well as other anthroposophical institutions in Germany
have been closed down by the Nazis.

254

THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

doubt, nevertheless, that a great artist could improve his work greatly
by the understanding gained through such ideas as those disseminated
by Steiner.

Other anthroposophical artistic work, such as furniture, decora-
tion or jewellery exhibited a similar lack of individuality, and a
degree of precosity. Artistic creation depends too much upon personal
talent to advance very far through a penetration into spiritual truth,
no matter how deep.

In literature Steiner's influence produced, in addition to his own
important and moving mystery plays, much better results. Some of
the finest work of the leading Swiss poet Albert Steffen and of
Christian Morgenstern, one of the most interesting German poets
before the war, have been inspired directly by Steiner's ideas.

His political and economic principles had found their expression
in his Threefold Commonwealth, mentioned in an earlier chapter.
Many of his ideas have since then been adopted all over the world.
They have been changed and distorted, and yet there are many in-
stances of modern political or economic legislation based on ideas
similar to those published by Steiner fifteen years ago. These ideas
were undoubtedly in the air, and sooner or later they had to be
adopted. We find distorted versions of them in the Corporative
State of Mussolini; we find them in the weakening of the
political strengthening of the economic ties between England
and her Dominions; and we find them especially in the many
readjustments in the economic structure of the world caused by the
world crisis.

Even in Steiner's lifetime there were experts who realized the
importance of his political and economic ideas. Soon after the publi-
cation of his Threefold Commonwealth, the Hibbert Journal published
an article about it, written by a distinguished scholar, J. S. Mackenzie,
a professor of Logic and Philosophy, and one of the leading Scottish
authorities on these subjects. Professor Mackenzie, who admits that
Steiner's ideas deserve 'very serious consideration', compares them
with those of Plato's Republic. Plato and Steiner have certainly much
in common. Prof. Mackenzie analyses Steiner's ideas even from the
point of view of their adaptability in Great Britain, and he finds that
they might be suitable for this country. He states in conclusion that
Steiner's leading principles are a 'real contribution to social theory'
and 'of the highest value'.

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XII

The variety of subjects described in this chapter contain only a
part of the discoveries and principles left by Rudolf Steiner as his
testament. It would need almost an Encyclopaedia to give a full
picture of his work. Only those among his activities that are already
establishing themselves in modern life have been touched upon here.

Mr. D. N. Dunlop, the founder and head of the World Power
Conference, one of the great international organizations of our time,
expressed the opinion of many people when he said that Rudolf
Steiner's * spiritual science embraces the whole wide sphere of the
Heavens above and the Earth beneath'. He summed up Steiner's
work in the following words: 'He has brought the knowledge of the
spirit into practical application in the world of men in the spheres
of philosophy, sociology, science, art, religion, medicine, education.
. . . Rudolf Steiner's wisdom revered the traditions of the past,
illuminated the problems of the present, pointed forward to the
possibilities of the future.'

Professor Mackenzie's important analysis of Steiner's political
ideas and Mr. Dunlop's eulogy are exceptions rather than the rule.
Only very few unbiased and serious articles about Steiner have ap-
peared in the press. The reader is justified in asking how it is possible
that a man like Steiner should be still so little known, and should
play so comparatively small a part in modern life. The main reason
is that only new teachings which are fundamentally of a traditional
kind can gain an immediate response. A revolutionary teaching that
requires an entirely new conception of all aspects of science, and that
affects every branch of our life, cannot possibly be established in
one or two generations.

If Steiner had not based his doctrine on an open acknowledge-
ment of the spirit, and if he had explained his occult perceptions in
a way more acceptable to the physical sciences, the world at large
would have followed him much more readily. Had his doctrine re-
quired less effort on the part of the individual, had it been presented
in a less scientific form, many more people would have tried to adopt
it. Had Steiner been less of a fanatic with regard to truth, had he
allowed himself in any way to compromise, his success would have
been instantaneous.

Those who study Steiner seriously and dispassionately are not
surprised that the acceptance of his ideas should still be limited to a

256

THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER

comparatively small group, and that they should have revitalized
only a few thousand acres of soil. Steiner insisted over and over again
that a movement like anthroposophy had to develop organically and
slowly, and that it could not be forced in its growth. For Steiner, whc
believed with St. John that * a man can receive nothing, except it be
given him from heaven', knew that in forcing spirit we distort truth,
and that this is a real offence against heaven.

257

CHAPTER III
KRISHNAMURTI IN CARMEL

I had revisited the Continent where my search had begun; I had
seen Keyserling again, and I had learned what had become of
Steiner's grandiose visions of a truer world. But I anticipated no
change in any of the teachers I had been in touch with more keenly
than the one that had taken place in Krishnamurti. I wrote to Eerde
in Holland, asking him when and where I could visit him. I waited
for an answer for more than three months, and when it eventually
arrived I learned that he was just leaving New Zealand after a lecture
tour in Australasia, that he was on his way to California, and that
he would not be back in Europe for another eighteen months. A
journey to California meant a great sacrifice of time and money.
Nevertheless I decided to go all the way to the Pacific Coast to learn
how Krishnamurti had changed since the days when I stayed with
him at his Dutch chateau, and especially since the dissolution of his
organization. Krishnamurti's Californian home was at the Ojai
Valley, not far from Hollywood.

When I decided to visit Krishnamurti in California, I hoped to
get incidentally a glimpse of the spiritual atmosphere in the country
in which he now lived. I had seen enough of America to know that
Romain Rolland's description of what was most striking in American
life still held good: '. . . the existence side by side of the hope and the
fear of the future, the highest and the most sinister forces; an im-
mense thirst for truth, and an immense thirst for the false; absolute
disinterestedness and an unclean worship of gold; childlike sincerity
and the charlatanism of the fair.* A desire for spiritual knowledge
lived side by side with the most blatant materialism.

When I arrived in the United States in the autumn of 1934 I soon
noticed that the disappointment and the growing mistrust of purely
material salvation, resulting from the economic disasters of the last
few years, had created in many people a hunger for things of the
spirit. There was a distinct awakening of the spirit not unlike that
which took place in Germany in the immediate post-war years. This
was not surprising. Few forms of experience are more conducive to

258

KRISHNAMURTI IN CARMEL

spiritual understanding than suffering. The failure of most of the
deities — politics, finance, industry — to satisfy their worshippers was
bound to attract attention more and more to the power of the spirit
— the only power that had been left unexplored.

It was, then, not without significance that Krishnamurti was to
be found in the American scene. He was not the first teacher from
India to exercise a spiritual influence over American thought through
personal contact. Almost half a century before him young Vivekan-
anda, the great Indian teacher and disciple of Ramakrishna, had
visited the United States; had impressed the Parliament of Religions
in Chicago in 1893 more than any theologian, philosopher or church-
man, and had influenced William James, the great American philo-
sopher. The peculiar form of spiritual truth, as it is perceived by the
East, was no longer unknown to the American public. After the
teachings of Ramakrishna and Vivekananda, the message of Krish-
namurti was transplanted to American soil at one of the most
critical and thus spiritually most propitious times in the evolution
of American civilization.

As my time was limited, I decided to travel from New York to
California by aeroplane. I had never flown before, and though the
speed of over two hundred miles an hour meant little to me, I was
strangely moved when seventeen hours after we had left the icy
atmosphere of New York we landed three thousand miles farther
west, at Hollywood's airport, Glendale, bathed in a brilliant sun and
encircled by mountains with snowy peaks.

No-one awaited me — a depressing arrival. When I telephoned I
was told that Krishnamurti was not at Ojai but at Carmel, where he
had been staying for the last few weeks. But I was assured by the
voice at the other end that I would like Carmel, which was not very
far from San Francisco, much better than Ojai.

After I had got over my first disappointment, I was glad to be
going to Carmel. I remembered Carmel from a previous visit to
California, and I anticipated that it would offer more possibilities
of quiet and concentration than Ojai with its proximity to Hollywood.

I left Hollywood in the evening in pouring rain. I had to leave the
train at Monterey, and I telephoned from the station to Krishna-
murti to inform him of my arrival. Half an hour later a car pulled
up in front of the station and Krishnamurti jumped out.

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III

I had not seen him for a number of years. There was still the
graceful slenderness of appearance, but the face had no longer its
former boyish smoothness. Seven years ago he had radiated nothing
so strongly as beauty and, though already older, he had looked a
youth in his early twenties. Now the cheeks seemed hollower, and
under the eyes there were deep shadows. Silver threads ran through
the thick black hair, and the lines of the face betrayed, perhaps,
some hidden worry or conflict — or was this merely the evidence of
increased maturity?

We drove out to Carmel, which was several miles away. It had
stopped raining, and the countryside was emerging from its drab-
ness. In the morning sun the plains were green and golden and the
hills and mountains purple and violet.

Since all the rooms were occupied in the little hotel in which
Krishnamurti was staying, he took me to a larger one near by. My
hotel was situated in the very midst of huge pines, on a hill over-
looking the sea. Except for the diningroom and the lounge, the hotel
consisted of a number of small huts, scattered in the woods. This
was a particularly attractive way of living. You had your own hut
with its little front porch, and your own grounds. Pines, shrubs and
innumerable plants grew between the various huts, situated on differ-
ent levels. The effect was pleasing and picturesque, and you could
work or relax in your room without being disturbed by any of the
other hotel guests.

After I had taken a look round my new home and expressed my
delight with it, Krishnamurti said: 'I don't quite know what you
want from me, or whether I'll be able to satisfy you. How do you
propose to proceed?'

'Let us just be together as much as possible, if you can bear it',
I answered. 'We will talk, and things will probably develop auto-
matically. I came here to pick your brains and to ask you many
indiscreet questions', I added, not quite as a joke.

Krishnamurti promised to visit me that afternoon, when we would
go for a long walk and have our first conversation; in the evening
we would dine together, and I would meet the people among whom
he lived.

We were both very fond of walking, but heavy clouds gathered
during the afternoon, and when Krishnamurti came to fetch me

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It rained so hard that we had to remain indoors. Between the
trunks of the pines outside my window you could overlook the sea
covered with the white combs of hurrying waves. I was slightly
nervous at the thought of our first conversation. The lack of
common daily experiences tends to make such a conversation
artificial.

In several books and in many articles attacks had been launched
against Krishnamurti, and, as far as I was aware, he had not answered
them. There was, for example, the question of his attitude with
regard to the claims of a second Christ made on his behalf; again
there was the question of his finances and of his private life. I con-
sidered that our conversation could serve no useful purpose while
there remained a doubt in my mind as to Krishnamurti's absolute
honesty of purpose.

I said, without looking him straight in the face: 'I am afraid my
first question will seem tactless to you. But I have not come all this
way to enjoy a polite conversation with you or to plunge into ab-
stract philosophical discussions. I came to find out the truth. I want
to be able to tell my readers that I believed what you have told me,
and therefore the first thing I ask of you is absolute frankness and
honesty. Otherwise I shall feel that my whole journey out here will
have been in vain. I may perhaps formulate my request by quoting
the relevant passage from a biography of Mrs. Besant by Theodore
Besterman. This is what the author has to say about you: "Mr.
Krishnamurti is now in a position in which he is able to do much
good; the message he is bringing to the world is one which is badly
needed; if he can succeed in inducing a large and influential number
of people to adopt these views and to act on them, the benefit con-
ferred on the world would be incalculable. But Mr. Krishnamurti
must realize that, as an advocate of truth in the largest sense, he must
himself act the Truth. He has been very frank, but he must be franker
still. Up to 1929 Mr. Krishnamurti's life was entangled in a complex
network of far-reaching claims. Mr. Krishnamurti must tell us the
truth about these things, however painful it will necessarily be to
discuss his past friends in public." '

Krishnamurti took my hand with an almost passionate gesture,
and said: 'Now listen. No apologies are necessary. You can ask me
anything you want, the most tactless, the most intimate questions.
There is no privacy in my life, and everyone may hear any detail that
may interest him. Let us put our whole relationship on that basis,

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and it will save us a lot of unnecessary trouble. Ask anything you
want — go ahead.'

I decided to begin with a point, the best formulation of which I
found in the same book by Mr. Besterman. It dealt with Krishna-
murti's authorship of a short mystical book, which he was supposed
to have written as a little boy, but under the direct guidance of the
'master' preparing him for an 'initiation'. I went on: 'This is what
Besterman says about one of your earliest "crimes": ". . . he must
tell us the truth about the authorship of such books as At the feet
of the master, which appear under his name. ... I must say in the
plainest terms that so long as Mr. Krishnamurti does not speak to
us frankly about these years before 1929 he will never obtain the ear
of intelligent and educated people. . . .'"

Krishnamurti became pensive for a second and said: 'People have
asked me that question before. Some of them were satisfied with my
answer, others weren't. For anyone who does not know me well it
may be difficult at first to accept my answer. I am bound to say a few
words about myself before I can answer your question. You must
have noticed that I have got an extremely bad memory for what one
may call physical realities. When you arrived this morning I could
not remember whether we had met two, three or ten years ago.
Neither can I remember where and how we met. People used to call
me a dreamer and they accused me, quite rightly, of being desperately
vague. I was hopeless at school in India. Teachers or friends would
talk to me, I would listen to them, and yet I wouldn't have the faintest
notion what they were talking about. I don't recollect whether I used
to think about anything in particular at such moments, and if so,
what about. I must just have been dreaming, since facts failed to
impress themselves upon my memory. I remember vaguely having
written something when I was a boy educated by Bishop Leadbeater,
but I haven't the slightest recollection whether I wrote a whole book
or only a few pages. I don't know what Leadbeater did with the pages
I wrote, whether he corrected them or not, whether they were kept
or destroyed. I don't know whether I wrote of my own accord or
whether I was influenced by some power outside myself. I wish I
knew. I don't claim to be a writer, but it seems to me that no-one can
ever tell whether a writer is directed by a power outside or just by
his own brain and his own emotions. I would very much like to
know the hidden subtleties of that complicated process which ii
called writing. I, too, would like to know the facts about the writing

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of the book At the feet of the master. I can still see myself sitting at
a table and writing something that did not come at all easily to me.
I1, must be some twenty-five years ago/

*How old are you now?'

'I can't tell. In India age matters less than in the West, and records
of age are not kept. According to my passport I was born in 1897.
But I can't vouch for the accuracy of this.'

The atmosphere seemed by now intimate enough for what I con-
sidered the most difficult question to put to him. I personally attached
little importance to it, but I knew that people interested in Krishna-
murti were always discussing it. * Many people are sceptical', I said,
'with regard to you because you have never denied the claims made
on your behalf. You have never got up and said clearly: "All this
talk about my being the World Teacher is bunkum, I deny the truth
of it."'

'I never either denied or affirmed that I was Christ or anybody
else', Krishnamurti replied. * Such attributions are utterly meaning-
less to me.'

'But not to the people who come to listen to you', I interrupted.

' Had I said yes, they would have wanted me to perform miracles,
walk on the water or awaken the dead. Had I said no, I am not
Christ, they would have taken this as an authoritative statement and
acted accordingly. I am, however, against all authority in spiritual
matters, against all standards created by one person for the sake of
others. I could not possibly say either yes or no. You will probably
understand this better after you have been with me for a few days,
and after we have had several talks. To-day I can only say that I
consider my own person of no special importance, Christ or no
Christ. What matters is whether what I say can help people or not.
Any confirmation or denial on my part would only evoke corres-
ponding expectations on the part of the people. When I visit India
people ask me: "Why do you wear European clothes and eat every
day? You cannot be a true teacher. If you were one, you would be
fasting and walking about in a loincloth." My answer to this can
only be that everyone teaches what it is his particular duty to teach
and that everyone has to lead his own life. It does not follow that
because Gandhi wears only a loincloth and Christ walked on the
water, I must do likewise. The labels for my personality are irrelevant.
But there was another reason as well for never denying clearly the
claims made on my behalf. It was regard for Dr. Besant. Had I said

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that I was not the World Teacher, people would have cried, " Mrs.
Besant is a liar!" My categorical denial would have harmed and hurt
her. By saying nothing I did spare her without harming anyone else.'

'Why did you go on lecturing even after renouncing your or-
ganization?*

Krishnamurti seemed surprised. 'I never thought of that', he said
after a short pause; ' I went on lecturing out of habit, I suppose. I was
made to do it since my boyhood; it became a sort of tradition with
me, and I just went on doing it. I suppose I was never quite conscious
in those days of what I was doing. It is only in the last few years
that I have become fully aware of all my daily actions and that I no
longer act as though walking in a dream.'

'I believe you, Krishnaji, but do you think my readers will?'

' I can help neither you nor them if they won't. I am not hiding
anything from you, I am telling you the whole truth. I presume that
people with a strongly developed sense of facts and a good memory
must find me exasperating. But I cannot help that.'

I had never spoken to Krishnamurti since he had given up his
huge organization, and I was anxious to know more about that
momentous decision. Then we should be able to turn to more
important matters.

'When did you decide to give up that organization which had been
built up for you, and to renounce all your earthly possessions? And
why really did you do it?' I asked. 'Was it in 1929 that you spoke
about it for the first time?'

' No, a year or two before. But I did not feel clearly about it till
1929. 1 talked to Rajagopal1 about it; we had long discussions, and
eventually I spoke to Dr. Besant about my decision. She only said:
"For me you are the Teacher, no matter what you decide to do. I
cannot understand your decision, but I shall have to respect it." For
a certain time she appeared to be rather shaken, but she was a
splendid woman and at last she seemed to agree with what I was
doing. I gave up my organization because I came to realize beyond
all doubt that anything of that sort must be hindering if you want to
find truth. Churches, dogmas, ceremonies are nothing but stumbling
blocks on the road to truth.'

'But you go on lecturing even to-day, don't you?'

'Indeed I do. I feel more than ever that I can help people. Of
course I cannot give them happiness or truth. No-one can. But I

1 Krishnamurti's best friend and late executive head of The Order of the Star,

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can help them to discern a way of approaching truth. Last year I
went to Australia, and at times I had to speak to ten thousand
people. In a few months' time I shall probably go on a lecture tour
to most of the South American countries.*

I had intended to question Krishnamurti about his financial situa-
tion and the moment seemed particularly appropriate. 'Do you make
much money during those tours?'

'None at all,' Krishnamurti answered, 'though they pay my
expenses.'

'There are so many stories regarding your financial situation,' I
said, ' that it would make it easier for me if you could enlighten me
about it. Some people accuse you of having accepted large fortunes
left to you by a number of very rich people in England and America
— it is said, in short, that you are practically a millionaire.'

Krishnamurti laughed. ' Do you know what I possess? A couple of
suits, a few books, a few personal belongings — and no money. There
are a few kind friends who help to keep me alive. They ask me to
stay with them; they pay my modest expenses when I travel. Take
Carmel for example: I stay at my hotel as the guest of an old friend
who has got a house in the neighbourhood and who knows that I
love working here. If I had money I should give it away as I did once
before. My needs are so small that what I receive is ample. If no-one
gave me anything I should just work for my living.'

'I am glad we have cleared up that point', I said; 'from now on
I need no longer feel like counsel for the prosecution, and we can
spend our time on things that really matter.'

'Then let's start straight away and go and have some dinner',
Krishnamurti exclaimed, getting up. 'We dine early here, not like
you in England. I generally go to bed soon after nine, and get up
in the morning before six.'

It was quite dark outside, and we drove slowly to Krishnamurti's
hotel. The road took us higher and higher over cliffs and through
pine woods, while from deep below came the thunder of waves
breaking against the rocks. The road was narrow and steep, and
there were many sharp corners. On one side there seemed to be a
deep precipice. 'I don't drive very much these days', Krishnamurti
said as his hand lay rather vaguely on the steering wheel; and he
added with a chuckle: 'I hope you insured your life before you left
England?'

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The weather was glorious next morning, and I went to fetch
Krishnamurti for a walk. We had not gone very far when we reached
a clearing in the huge pine trees high up on the hills, with an endless
view over the picturesque coastline. We decided that it would be
easier to talk sitting down. Krishnamurti sat down in Eastern fashion
with crossed legs on the heather-covered ground. I had already
worked out a plan which would enable us to talk every day about
certain definite subjects, hoping that this would help us not to lose
ourselves and that it would introduce a certain structure into our
talks.

'What is your message to-day?' I began.

Krishnamurti's answer came in a very definite tone: 'I have no
message. If I had one, most people would accept it blindly and try
to live up to it, merely because of the authority which they try to
force upon me.'

'But what do you tell people when they come and ask you to help
them?'

'Most people come and ask me whether they can learn through
experience.'

'And your answer is?'

'That they cannot.'

'No?'

'Of course not. You cannot learn spiritual truth through ex-
perience. Don't you see? Let us assume that you had a deep sorrow
and you learned how to fight against it. This experience will induce
you to apply the same method of overcoming grief during your next
sorrow.'

'That does not seem wrong to me.'

'But it is wrong. Instead of doing something vital, you try to adapt
a dead method to life. Your former experience has become a pre-
scription, a medicine. But life is too complicated, too subtle for that.
It never repeats itself; no two sorrows in your life are alike. Each new
sorrow or joy must be dealt with in that particular fashion that the
uniqueness of the experience requires.'

'How can that be done?'

'By eliminating the memory of former experiences; by destroying
all recollection of our actions and reactions.'

'What remains after we have destroyed them all?'

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*An inner preparedness that brings you nearer truth. You never
ought to act according to old habits but in the way life wants you
to act — spontaneously, on the spur of the moment.'

'Does this apply to everything in life?'

'It does. You must try to eliminate from your life all old habits
and systems of behaviour, because no two moments in any life are
exactly similar.'

'But all this is only negative, and I don't find anything positive at
all in your scheme of things.'

Krishnamurti smiled and moved nearer me: 'You don't need to
search for the positive; don't force it. It is always there, though
hidden behind a huge heap of old experiences. Eliminate all of them,
and truth — or what you call the positive — will be there. It comes up
automatically, You cannot help it.'

I pondered over his words for a while, then I said: 'You have just
used the word "truth". What is truth, according to you?'

4 Call it truth or liberation or even God. It is all the same. Truth
is for me the release of the mind from all burdens of memory.'
This definition was new to me, but before I could say a word
Krishnamurti went on: 'Truth is awareness, constant awareness of
life within and without you. Do you follow?' His voice became
almost insistent.

*I do, but please explain to me what you mean by "awareness" *,
I replied.

Krishnamurti came even closer to me, and his voice became even
more persuasive. 'What matters is that we should live completely at
every moment of our lives. That is the only real liberation. Truth is
nothing abstract, it is neither philosophy, occultism nor mysticism.
It is everyday life, it is perceiving the meaning and wisdom of life
around us. The only life worth dealing with is our present life and
every one of its moments. But to understand it we must liberate our
mind from all memories, and allow it to appreciate spontaneously
the present moment.'

'I take it that by spontaneous appreciation you mean an apprecia-
tion dictated solely by the circumstances of that very moment?'

'Exactly — there can be no other spontaneity of life; and that is
precisely what I call real awareness. Do you understand?'

'I do, but I doubt whether such awareness can really be expressed
in words. ... I think it can only be understood if we actually ex-
perience it ourselves. No description can possibly do it justice/

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Krishnamurti did not answer immediately. He was lying on the
ground, facing the sky. 'It is so', he said slowly; 'but what is one to
do?'

'What indeed, Krishnaji? I wondered what you really meant when
you told me yesterday that you tried to help people by talking to
them. Can anyone who has not himself gone through that state of
awareness of which you speak comprehend what it means? Those
who possess it do not need to hear about it.'

Krishnamurti paused again, and I could see that he was affected
by the turn our conversation had taken. He said after a while:
'And yet this is the only way one can help people. I think that one
clarifies people's minds by discussing these things with them. Eventu-
ally they will perceive truth for themselves. Don't you agree?'

I knew that Krishnamurti disliked all questions that seemed to
arise out of mere curiosity or to depend upon abstract speculation,
but I nevertheless asked him: 'Don't you think that the limits of time
and space must cease to exist once we establish within ourselves a
constant awareness of life?'

'Of course they must. The past is only a result of memories. It is
dead stuff. Once we cease to carry about with us this ballast there will
be no time limits with regard to the past. The same is true in a
slightly different way with regard to the future. But all this talk about
seeing into the future or the past is only a result of purely intellectual
curiosity. At every lecture I give half a dozen people always ask me
about their future and past incarnations. As though it mattered what
they were or what they will be. All that is real is the present. Whether
we can look into the to-morrow or across continents is meaningless
from a spiritual point of view.'

' Don't you think that conscious perception through time and space
can be very valuable? Don't you think that the results obtained by
Rudolf Steiner's occult perceptions are really helpful to humanity?'

'I have never studied Steiner, and I wish you would tell me more
about him. All I know about Steiner comes from Dr. Besant's oc-
casional remarks. I think she had a great admiration for Steiner's
unusual gifts, and was sorry that their relationship had to be broken,
but I never studied him properly. As for occult perceptions, for me
they are not particularly spiritual: they are merely a certain method
of investigation. That's all. They might be spiritual at times, but
they are not always or necessarily so.'

'You have never read any of Steiner's books?'

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*No, nor have I ever read any of the other philosophers. . . .'

'But Steiner was not a philosopher', I interrupted.

'Yes, I know. I only meant writers of a philosophical or similar
kind. I cannot read them. I am sorry, but I just can't. Living and
reacting to life is what I am interested in. All theory is abhorrent to
me.'

Although noon was at hand and it was growing very hot, Krish-
namurti suggested a walk towards the sea. 'Are you writing anything
at present?' I asked him when we reached the road going down to
the sea.

'Yes, I am preparing a book. But it is nothing consecutive — just a
book of thoughts.'

'What about your poetry?'

'I feel poetry, but somehow I cannot write it at present.'

'What books do you read? I remember that at one time you used
to read a great deal, and that you liked choosing your friends
especially from among artists and writers.'

'What books does one read?' Krishnamurti answered, slightly
embarrassed.

Questions about his personal habits always seemed to make him
uncomfortable. I noticed this repeatedly during my visit at Carmel.
Though he derived every detail of his teaching from personal ex-
periences, and preferred talking about it in a personal way, it seemed
to me that he withdrew himself, as it were, whenever I put questions
that were not connected directly with his mission in life or that dealt
with such matters as his personal tastes and habits. Discussion for
the satisfaction of intellectual curiosity seemed to cause him dis-
comfort. This was not any result, I believe, of what is usually called
natural modesty. It was rather as though he tried to remain per-
petually on a plane of inner awareness, and felt uneasy whenever
he had to switch over to a plane of intellectual discussion. But he
loved ordinary conversation about topical subjects, politics, music,
the theatre or travel. It was only when the outside world was brought
into direct intellectual relationship with his personality that he
shrank away from such interrogation.

'I am not a specialist of any kind', said Krishnamurti, in answer
to my original question. 'I read everything that seems interesting —
Huxley, Lawrence, Joyce, Andre Gide '

' Did you really mean what you said when you told me that you
never read philosophy?'

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* Goodness me, yes! What should I read philosophy for?'

'Perhaps to learn from it.'

'Do you seriously think you can learn from books? You can ac-
cumulate knowledge, you can learn facts and technicalities, but you
cannot learn truth, happiness, or any of the things that really matter.
You can read for your entertainment, for thousands of other reasons,
but not to learn the essential things. You can only learn from living
and acknowledging the life that is your very own. But not from the
lives of others.'

c Does that mean that in your opinion nothing can ever be learned
from books, from the experience of others?'

*I shall refrain from saying definitely yes, though I feel inclined to
do so. The knowledge of others only builds up barriers within our-
selves, barriers that stand in the way of an impulsive reaction to life.
Of course it is easier to go through life learning from the experience
of others, leaning on Aristotle, on Kant, on Bergson or on Freud;
but that is not living your life, facing reality. It is merely evading
reality by hiding behind a screen created by someone else.'

'Do you consider this to be true of religion also?'

*I do. Religions offer people authority in place of truth; they give
them crutches instead of making their legs strong; they give them
drugs instead of urging them to push out along their own paths in
search of truth for themselves. I fear none of the churches to-day has
very much to do with truth.'

'Do many, among the thousands who come to listen to you, ask
you questions about religious matters?'

'Most of them do. There are three questions that crop up over and
over again, and no meeting is complete without them, whether I
speak in India, in Australia, in Europe or in California. I deduce
from their popularity that they must deal with the three most urgent
spiritual problems of modern man. They are questions about the
values of experience, of prayer and of religion in general.'

Krishnamurti had already given me his opinions of experience
and religion, so I only asked: 'What is your attitude towards prayer?'

'Prayer in which you ask God for something is in my opinion
utterly wrong.'

'Even if you ask God for help to achieve the awareness you were
talking about?'

'Even then. How can anything be spiritual — and prayer, I take it,
is supposed to be something spiritual — that asks for a reward? This

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is not spirituality but economics, or whatever else you like to call it.
In spiritual truth things just are; but there can be no requests,
promises or rewards. Things happen in life because they simply have
to happen. A reward can never be anything else but fixed, stationary,
if you understand what I mean. Spiritual life, true life, must be always
moving — fluctuating, alive.'

'But cannot prayer be just a bridge along which we move towards
the inner awareness?'

'It can, but that is not what people generally understand by prayer.
What you now mean is simply a state of real living, of inner expecta-
tion. This identifies us with truth. Do you see the difference?'

'I do, and I therefore presume that you deny all "crystallized"
forms invented by man for the attainment of truth, such as medi-
tation, yoga or other methods of mental exercise.'

'Yes, it is so. How can you expect to achieve something which is
constantly fluctuating through a method that, in your own words, is
crystallized — or in my words, dead? People often come to me and
ask me about the value of meditation. All I can tell them is that I see
no reason why they should meditate on one particular subject, instead
of meditating on everything that enters their life, because it seems to
me that deliberate concentration on one particular thought, elimina-
ting all others, must create an inner conflict. I consider it wiser to
meditate on whatever happens to enter your mind: whether it be about
what you will do this afternoon or as to which suit you will put on.
Such thoughts are as important — if attended to with your full inner
awareness — as any philosophy. It is not the subject of your thought
that matters so much as the quality of your thinking. Try to com-
plete a thought instead of banishing it, and your mind will become
a wonderful creative instrument instead of being a battlefield of
competing thoughts. Your meditation will then develop into a con-
stant alertness of mind. This is what I understand by meditation.'

I remembered Keyserling's answer to my question on meditation,
and was struck by the similarity of the views held by these two so
different men. 'Keyserling', I said, 'quite recently told me something
of much the same sort. He said that for him meditation was nothing
else but facing reality as it came along.'

'I agree with him in that respect. You can find truth only by your
own constant awareness of life. You must not try to live up to some-
bfldy else's standards, because inevitably those of two different men
can never be really identical.'

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'Does this mean that you believe in the absolute equality of
men?'

* Of course I do, though not in the way Communism understands
it. Because I preach equality of races, religions and castes, Com-
munists think that I preach Communism. American Communists
often come to visit me at Ojai and say: "We believe in you because
you preach the things that we do. But why don't you join our party?"
They don't understand that I am not only unable to join their party,
or any other party, but that I cannot possibly agree with their
methods. You can achieve equality among men only by greater
knowledge, by deeper understanding, by better education, by making
people grasp what life means. How can you do this if the leaders
themselves don't know, if they themselves behave like automatons
and preach their particular gospels not from an inner awareness of
life and its necessities — which means according to real truth — but
by repeating over and over and over again certain formulae invented
by others. You cannot achieve equality by taking their possessions
away from people. What you must take away from them is their
instinct of possessiveness. This does not apply only to land and
money, a factory or a sable coat. It also applies to a book, to a
flower, to your wife, your lover or your child. I don't mean to say
that you must not have or enjoy any of these things. Of course
you must! But you must enjoy them for the sake of the joy they
transmit, and not for the feeling of pleasure that their possession
gives you. This fundamental attitude has to be changed before any-
thing else can be done. Nothing can be altered by taking things
away from the rich and giving them to the poor, thus developing
their feeling of greed and possessiveness.'

When we met again we no longer pretended that we were going
for a walk but went straight to our pine-shadowed resort on the hill.
It was an ideal place for conversation — not a single human being
passed it all through the day and the view was exalting. The only
noise was that of the sea breaking on the cliffs. I no longer felt in-
timidated by the subjects on which I had considered it my duty to
question Krishnamurti; I knew that I could speak freely about every-
thing; and I felt that the moment had arrived when I could question
him about sex.

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Life in England had taught me to assume that sex was of much
smaller importance than I had believed it to be in the days when I
lived on the Continent. I had learned to treat sex in the way one treats
poorer relations or in the way Victorian society treated women's legs:
pretending that they do not exist and never mentioning them. Such
an attitude may provide a temporary solution, and it is probably of
practical value in all the more conventional circumstances of life.
But it does not solve the essential problem. It brings no happiness,
nor does it release any of those forces that sex, properly and honestly
expressed, ought to create. Hypocrisy, or rather make-believe in
matters of sex, may be laudable in the face of certain necessarily
superficial aspects of the life of a community; but hypocrisy can never
be more than merely a means of escape — it shirks the facing of
reality. Hypocrisy pushes sex behind hundreds of screens, each one
of which can hide it for only a short while, without doing anything
to solve the essential underlying problem. Among the few people who
find sexual satisfaction in perfect love the sex problem does not exist
— but such people are few. The majority are not capable of regulating
their sex impulses in a satisfactory way. Listen to the cases in the
police courts of any country; ask your medical friends; invite your
married or unmarried friends to tell you the whole truth about them-
selves, speak seriously to educationists — and you will find out this
sad reality for yourself.

I asked Krishnamurti whether he thought it wrong for people with
a very strong sexual impulse to give way to it. ' Nothing is wrong if
it is the result of something that is really within you', was his answer.
* Follow your urge, if it is not created by artificial stimuli but is burn-
ing within you — and there will be no sex problem in your life. A
problem only arises when something within us that is real is opposed
by intellectual considerations.'

'But surely it is not only intellectual considerations that cause
many people to believe the satisfaction of a strong sex urge to be
wrong, even if it is too strong to be suppressed.'

* Suppression can never solve a problem. Nor can self-discipline do
it. That is only substituting one problem for another.'

* But how do you expect millions of people, who have become
slaves of sex, to solve the friction between their urge and that judicial
sense which tries to prevent them from giving way? In England you
\^U find fewer people openly ruled by sex, but consider America ;
consider most of the countries of the continent of Europe; consider

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many of the Eastern nations — for them their sex needs are a grave
problem.'

I noticed an expression of slight impatience on Krishnamurti's face.
'For me this problem does not exist', he said; 'after all, sex is an ex-
pression of love, isn't it? I personally derive as much joy from touch-
ing the hand of a person I am fond of as another might get from
sexual intercourse.'

'But what about the ordinary person who has not attained to
your state of maturity, or whatever it should be called?'

'To begin with, people ought to see sex in its proper proportions.
It is not sex as a vital inner urge that dominates people nowadays
so much as the images and thoughts of sex. Our whole modern life
is propitious to them. Look around you. You can hardly open a
newspaper, travel by the underground or walk along a street without
coming across advertisements and posters that appeal to your sex
instincts in order to sing the praises of a pair of stockings, a new
toothpaste or a particular brand of cigarette. I cannot imagine that
so many semi-naked girls have ever before walked through the pages
of newspapers and magazines. In every shop, cinema and cafe the
lift attendants, waitresses and shopgirls are made up to look like
harlots so that they may appeal to your sex instincts. They themselves
are not conscious of this, but their short skirts, their exposed legs,
their painted faces, their girlish coiffures, the constant physical
appeal which they are made to exercise over the customer do nothing
but stimulate your sex instincts. Oh, it is beastly, simply beastly!
Sex has been degraded to become the servant of unimaginative sales-
manship. Someone will start a new magazine and, instead of racking
his brains for an interesting and alluring title-page, all he does is to
publish a coloured picture of a girl with half-opened lips, suggestively
hiding her breasts and looking altogether like a whore. You are
being constantly attacked, and you no longer know whether it is
your own sex urge or the sex vibration produced artificially by life
around you. This degrading, emphatic appeal to our sex instinct
is one of the most beastly signs of our civilization. Take it away, and
most of the so-called sex urge is gone.'

'I am not a moralist', Krishnamurti added after a pause; 'I have
nothing against sex, and I am against sex suppression, sex hypocrisy
and even what is called sexual self-discipline, which is only a specific
form of hypocrisy. But I don't want sex to be cheapened, to be intro-
duced into all those forms of life where it does not belong.'

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KRISHNAMURTJ IN CARMEL

* Nevertheless, Krishnaji, your world without its beastly sex appeal
will be found only in Utopia. We are dealing with the world as it
actually is, and as it will probably be in days to come, long after you
and I are gone.'

'That may be so, but it does not concern me. I am not a doctor;
I cannot prescribe half-remedies; I deal simply and solely with funda-
mental spiritual truth. If you are in search of remedies and half-
methods you must go to a psychologist. I can only repeat that if you
readjust yourself in such a way as to allow love to become an omni-
present feeling in which sex will be an expression of genuine affection,
all the wretched sex problems will cease to exist.'

He looked up for a few seconds and then gave a deep sigh. 'Oh, if
you people could only see that these problems don't exist in reality,
and that it is only yourselves who create them, and that it is your-
selves who must solve them! I cannot do it for you — nobody can if
he is genuine and faithful to truth. I can only deal with spiritual truth
and not with spiritual quackery.' His voice seemed full of disillusion
and he stopped and lay back on the ground.

I began to understand what Christ must have meant when He
spoke of His love without distinction for every human being, and of
all men being brothers. Indeed, the omnipresent feeling of love (in
which sex would become meaningless without being eliminated)
seemed the only form of love worthy of a conscious and mature
human being. Nevertheless I wondered whether Krishnamurti him-
self had reached that stage of life-awareness in which personal love
had given place to universal love, in which every human being would
be approached with equal affection.

'Don't you love some people more than others?' I asked. 'After all,
even a person like yourself is bound to have emotional preferences.'

Krishnamurti's voice was very quiet when he began to speak again.
'I must first say something before I can give you a satisfactory reply
to your question. Otherwise you may not be able to accept it in the
spirit in which it is offered. I want you to know that these talks are
quite as important to me as they can possibly be to you. I don't speak
to you merely to satisfy the curiosity of an author who happens to be
writing about me, or to help you personally. I talk mainly to clarify
a number of things for myself. This I consider one of the great values
of conversation. You must not think therefore that I ever say any-
thijig unless I believe it with my whole heart. I am not trying to im-
press, to convince or to teach you. Even if you were my oldest friend

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or my brother I should speak in just the same way. I am saying all
this because I want you to accept my words as simple statements of
opinion and not as attempts to convert or persuade. You asked me
just now about personal love, and my answer is that I no longer
know it. Personal love does not exist for me. Love is for me a con-
stant inner state. It does not matter to me whether I am now with you,
with my brother or with an utter stranger — I have the same feeling
of affection for all and each of you. People sometimes think that
I am superficial and cold, that my love is negative and that it is not
strong enough to be directed to one person only. But it is not in-
difference, it is merely a feeling of love that is constantly within me
and that I simply cannot help giving to everyone I come into touch
with.' He paused for a second as though wondering whether I be-
lieved him, and then said: 'People were shocked by my recent be-
haviour after Mrs. Besant's death. I did not cry, I did not seem dis-
tressed but was serene; I went on with my ordinary life, and people
said that I was devoid of all human feeling. How could I explain to
them that, as my love went to everyone, it could not be affected by
the departure of one individual, even if this was Mrs. Besant. Grief
can no longer take possession of you when love has become the basis
of your entire being.'

'There must be people in your life who mean nothing to you or
whom you even dislike?'

Krishnamurti smiled: 'There aren't any people I dislike. Don't
you see that it is not I who directs my love towards one person,
strengthening it here, weakening it there? Love is simply there like
the colour of my skin, the sound of my voice, no matter what I do.
And therefore it is bound to be there even when I am surrounded by
people I don't know or people whom I "should" not care for. Some-
times I am forced to be in a crowd of noisy people that I don't know;
it may be some meeting or a lecture or perhaps a waiting room in a
station, where the atmosphere is full of noise, smoke, the smell of
tobacco and all the other things that affect me physically. Even then
my feeling of love for everyone is as strong as it is under this sky and
on this lovely spot. People think that I am conceited or a hypocrite
when I tell them that grief and sorrow and even death do not affect
me. It is not conceit. Love that makes me like that is so natural to
me that I am always surprised that people can question it. And I feel
this unity not only with human beings. I feel it with trees, with rte
sea, with the whole world around me. Physical differentiations no

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KRISHNAMURTI IN CARMEL

longer exist. I am not speaking of the mental images of a poet; I
am speaking of reality.'

When Krishnanrurti stopped his eyes were shining, and there was
in him that specific quality of beauty which easily appears senti-
mental or artificial when described in words, and yet is so convincing
when met with in real life. It did not seem magnetism that radiated
from him but rather an inner illumination that is hard to define, and
that manifests itself as sheer beauty. I now experienced the feeling
we sometimes have when confronted by strong impressions of
Nature. Reaching the top of a mountain, or the soft breezes of early
spring, with the promise of daffodils and leafy woods, can produce
occasionally such states of unsophisticated contentment.

Krishnamurti had told me a lot during the few hours on the
hill, and I felt on our walk home that I must first digest it all,
and that it would be wiser to remain by myself for the rest of the
day.

I read during the afternoon the pamphlets that Krishnamurti had
given me, and that contained his recent lectures at Ojai and in
Australia. Though I recognized in these many of his fundamental
beliefs, I was struck again by the words in which he expressed to an
Australian audience that it is essential to eliminate the I, the ego, in
order to see truth. 'Happiness, or truth or God cannot be found as
the outcome of the ego. The ego is to me nothing but the result of
environment.' I wondered whether the people at large could grasp
this idea. Weren't they always taught that they have to develop their
ego, their personality, before they can hope to achieve anything im-
portant in life? Would it not be wiser if Krishnamurti proceeded
step by step, teaching that inner awareness could be found only
gradually and after long and slow preparation?

That was my first question when we settled down next morning
under the pines overlooking the ocean. 'Mrs. Besant once said to
me,' Krishnamurti answered, ' "I am nothing but a nurse who helps
people who are unable to move by themselves and who are in need
of crutches. This I consider to be my duty. You, Krishnaji, appeal to
people who do not need crutches, who can walk on their own feet.
Go«em talking to them, but please let me speak to those who need
nelp. Don't tell them that all crutches are wrong, because some

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people cannot live without them. Please, do not tell them to refuse to
follow anyone on whom they can lean.'"

'What was your answer?' I interrupted. 'I think Mrs. Besant's re-
quest was very fair.'

'I said to her: "I cannot possibly do what you are asking me. I
consider that any definite method or advice is a crutch, and thus a
barrier to truth. I simply must go on denying all crutches — even
yours." Do not blame me for having been so cruel to a woman of
eighty, to whom I seem to have meant a great deal and whom I
always loved and admired.'

'I see your point, Krishnaji; nevertheless I question its wisdom,'
I said. 'The majority of people are neither independent nor conscious
of themselves — that's why they need help. Your attitude might be
considered cruel. Your duty is, I take it, to help people and to help
as many as you can. Doesn't that mean that you have to consider
the overwhelming majority of people?'

'I cannot possibly make distinctions between a majority and a
minority; for it is wrong to assume that there is one truth for
the masses and another for the elect. All people are spiritually
equal.'

'But even Jesus Christ had to differentiate. He first gave His
message to a small minority before it could become public property.'

'Is it really so? He gave it to anyone who was willing to accept
it. Whether He spoke directly to twelve or to twelve thousand
people does not alter this. He spoke of universal things that
affected everyone in the world, no matter what their racial, religious,
intellectual or social standing. He never appealed to a minority
only.'

' But wouldn't you consider it wiser to prepare people slowly for
a truth that requires such a thorough inner readjustment? Only a
few people are ripe for the necessary inner revolution.'

'These few matter. Those who genuinely search for truth, who
study it from every angle, who test it and open themselves to it, will
find it easy to live in constant inner awareness. Preparing people for
it would mean compromising. And a compromise is a bargain
between truth and untruth. How can you expect me to preach un-
truth— no matter in what form — after having found truth? I am not
a quack. I am only concerned with spiritual truth.'

'So what should the people do who cannot walk through ^"fe
without crutches?'

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KRISHNAMURTI IN CARMEL

'Let them go on using them — but I shall have nothing to do with
them. People who need a sanatorium must not come to me.' Krishna-
murti came nearer to me and took my hand, as he would sometimes
do when in despair at my inability to see his point; and then he said:
' You must understand that I can only talk to people who are willing
to revolutionize themselves in order to find truth. You cannot find
truth by living on a special emotional diet or by using an elaborate
system of mental exercises.'

I began to see that no compromise was possible and that Krishna-
murti could only offer truth with all its revolutionary consequences
or else no truth at all. In spite of this I said: "I think you are right;
but yet I ask myself, How can truth, as conceived by you, be com-
municated to the masses?'

The same expression of sadness came into Krishnamurti's face
that I had noticed before when I questioned him on that point. He
began to speak slowly, as though talking to himself: 'I, too, often
ask myself, How? When I speak in India more than ten thousand
people will come to a meeting to listen to me. Thousands come to
listen to me in America — thousands in Europe — thousands in
Australia.1 1 know that most of them come simply out of curiosity
or for fun, and only a few because they are trying to find something
which they haven't found elsewhere. How many of them return
home happier or richer? . . . And yet I know that I must go on doing
it. One can help people only by talking to them, by discussing truth
with them.' He stopped for a moment and then turned towards me:
'As you know, I abhor the whole idea of discipleship and all the
futility of a so-called spiritual organization; yet at times I wonder
whether I shouldn't prepare a few helpers who might be able to
enlighten those people who won't listen to me because of my former
notoriety as "the messiah". They might listen to my "pupils" who
have no past to live down. I must confess that it makes me sad that
I cannot help as many people as I should like to.'

We got up, and Krishnamurti insisted upon accompanying me
halfway towards my hotel. The sea was stretched at the bottom of
the steep road, on one side of which was a private garden full of red,
blue and yellow flowers and mimosa trees covered with thick clusters
of golden blossoms. Beyond the garden hills rose swiftly towards the

1 In the summer of 1935 I received a letter from Krishnamurti, from Rio de
Janeiro, in which he wrote : 'I gave here two meetings in a football stadium, as
.iiere was no theatre large enough to hold the crowd.' Each time twenty thousand
people attended his meeting.

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sky. Though the sun was shining, a faint haze lingered over the sea.
November was approaching, but the light, the heat and the vegeta-
tion suggested July. When we reached the bottom of the road we
separated, and I walked on by myself along the coast, Krishnamurti
turning back up the hill. I looked round after a minute and saw him
walking very slowly; his head was hanging down and his shoulders
drooping — his shoulders looked narrower than ever before. I felt like
running back and saying something to him — but I did not do it.

VII

What effect had Krishnamurti's message on those who had had
no proper preparation for it or no chance of daily conversation with
him? I wondered whether they found it very hard to grasp, and
whether they felt it beyond their powers. Now the moment had
arrived to learn something about the reactions of other people.

Carmel seemed particularly propitious for such a task. There were
at Carmel not only those average Americans who would react to
Krishnamurti's message in the usual, that is to say, emotional rather
than critical way, but also people with pronounced capacities for the
understanding and criticism of it. Carmel was not what might be
called a 'colony'. It was not the Capri of English novelists and
Russian religious * maniacs'; it was not the defenceless Positano
upon which descended soon after the war hordes of German and
American painters; it was not the Swiss Ascona in which Germanic
dreamers were following many and varied gods; it was not even one
of those fishing villages along the Mediterranean coast which, dis-
covered by a fashionable Anglo-American dramatist or novelist,
are turned overnight into a centre of international frivolity. Carmel
was one of those faintly baroque survivals, scattered here and there
under the pines and cedars along the coast, of California's Spanish
past. An antique church stood outside the miniature town with its
main street called Ocean Avenue, its big drugstore in which every-
thing could be bought from hot sandwiches to detective novels and
chewing gum; there were shops in one-storey houses, faintly reminis-
cent of colonial architecture. There was even an art gallery, run by
a few ladies and dedicated fearlessly both to music and to pictorial
art. Once a month the big white room of the art gallery would be
transformed into a concert hall, with a miniature stage and ttu^y
rows of little chairs. Musicians from all over the world, in need of

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KRISHNAMURTI IN CARMEL

a short rest during their American tour, would stop in Carmel for
a couple of days on their journey between San Francisco and Los
Angeles, and would give a recital in the white exhibition room with
its modern pictures and its host of eager listeners. The residential
houses were in smaller side streets, and lay in the midst of little
gardens, adorned by hibiscus and fuchsias of unusual size. The woods
and plains round Carmel had so far escaped suburbanization. One
or two houses were built on some romantic promontory, over-
hanging the sea and commanding a limitless view of sky and coastline.

Though Carmel had become the home of many creative person-
alities, its life had not been deadened by an intellectual or artistic
unity of purpose. Yet the presence of Krishnamurti seemed to be
producing an as yet little visible common link, affecting the com-
plexion of the community. Carmel has not become a Krishnamurti
colony. Nevertheless his presence seemed to have focused the atten-
tion of the inhabitants of Carmel and of the neighbouring Dal Monte,
Monterey and Pebble Beach. I was assured that even in the shops in
Ocean Avenue people talked much less of Mr. Roosevelt or of the
latest Hollywood scandals than of Krishnamurti.

Many of the inhabitants have approached Krishnamurti directly
— some no doubt to satisfy a curiosity awakened by the man's former
notoriety, a few out of a religious need, and the greatest number
perhaps because they were personally attracted by him. This class
seemed by far the largest, and it represented most of the social and
intellectual figures in the life of Carmel.

VIII

Among these people I met Robinson Jeffers, one of America's
greatest living poets. Although he was not interested in 'spiritual
movements' or religious teachers, so that the name of Krishnamurti
had meant nothing to him before they met, Robinson Jeffers was
so attracted by Krishnamurti's personality that the two men soon
became friends. I was anxious to talk to Jeffers about Krishnamurti,
and I gladly accepted an invitation to visit him and his charming
wife.

They lived right on the coast in a house built by the poet's own
hands from the cobblestones that lay about on the beach. He had
v ^ ought them thence stone by stone until he had built the house —
an unaided labour of five or six years. He spent another two years

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in erecting a medieval-looking tower in the garden, constructed
also from stones found on the beach. This tower had a steep and
spiral flight of steps, and on its top you entered a tiny and unex-
pected room, with panelled walls, a comfortable bench and a superb
view, looking across the beach towards the sea. The sound of the
waves, the dark outlines of the rocks — from the grey stones of which
the tower and the house had been built — the wind and the salty
freshness of the atmosphere made you think of Cornwall.

I spent an afternoon in the small tower room, talking to my host
about Krishnamurti. A log fire was burning in the small fireplace,
and California seemed very far away. Robinson Jeffers was reserved
and shy, and his persistent silence almost suggested an inner fear
that a spoken word might destroy images maturing in his poet's
brain. He was wearing khaki breeches and leggings, and but for his
dreamy eyes, and the great tenderness in the expression of his mouth,
he might have been an English farmer. Both his wife and his friends
had warned me that I should have to do most of the talking, but once
or twice I succeeded in making him speak. 'For me', he said in a
slow and hesitant manner, 'there is nothing wrong in Krishnamurti's
message — nothing that I must contradict.'
'Do you think his message will ever become popular?'
'Not at present. Most people won't find it intelligible enough.'
'What struck you most when you met him for the first time?'
'His personality. Mrs. Jeffers often makes the remark that light
seems to enter the room when Krishnamurti comes in, and I agree
with her, for he himself is the most convincing illustration of his
honest message. To me it does not matter whether he speaks well or
not. I can feel his influence even without words. The other day we
went together for a walk in the hills. We walked for almost ten miles
and as I am a poor speaker we hardly talked at all — yet I felt happier
after our walk. It is his very personality that seems to diffuse the
truth and happiness of which he is always talking.' Robinson Jeffers
lit his pipe, which had gone out, and then again sat watching the
flames in the grate.

' Do you think Krishnamurti's message is so matured as to have
found its final formulation?'

'It may be final, but I wonder whether it has quite matured yet.
It will be mature when its words are intelligible to everyone. At
present there is a certain thinness in them. Don't you think so?'
'I quite agree. I confess that at times I simply don't know how to

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write about him. Whatever I put on paper sounds unconvincing
and makes Krishnamurti appear the very antithesis of what he
really is: it makes him look conceited, a prig or a complacent fellow.
In writing, his arguments are irritating and his logic unconvincing.
And yet they sound so true when he uses them in conversation. It
is almost impossible to describe him, for so much depends upon his
personality, and so little upon what he says.'

'Yes, it is almost impossible to describe certain personalities.'

'I think this may be mainly because Krishnamurti's intellectual
faculties have not developed quite as completely as the spiritual side
of the man. After all, intellectually he is still a youth. Most of his
life has been spent in the theosophical nursery. Most of his ideas
were stifled in those days. Many teachers impress us by their know-
ledge; Krishnamurti does it by his very person, which he gives to
his listeners and which inspires them, and not by his particular brand
of wisdom.'

*I suppose it is so', replied Jeffers in his slow, quiet way. 'Others
will have to find a clear and convincing language to express his
message. After all, it would not be the first time that the followers of
a teacher have had to build the bridge across which a new message
can reach the masses.'

I met several people in Carmel and also in other parts of America
who expressed similar opinions. Some of the inhabitants of Carmel
told me that they were unable to grasp Krishnamurti's message or
that they failed to see its practical value — but all of them confessed
that he gave them a feeling of happiness and calm that they had
never known before.

On Sunday afternoons anyone who wished could come to the
hotel at which Krishnamurti stayed, and there join in a general
discussion in the big lounge. I was more amused than impressed by
these discussions, in which purely personal questions were asked,
often irrelevant, or prompted merely by intellectual curiosity. I told
Krishnamurti what I thought, but in his opinion he could help people
to find truth for themselves if he and they evolved the answers to-
gether. Perhaps twenty, perhaps two hundred people would attend
these Sunday discussions which created a nucleus for Krishnamurti's
message in California.

It was always Krishnamurti's personality that most of all im-
p^ jsed people. They felt that here was a man who lived his teaching
even more convincingly than he preached it. I was told that when

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Krishnamurti entered America he was granted a limited time of
residence there. It was suggested to him, however, that, if he cared
to state in his passport that he entered the country as a teacher, he
would be allowed more favourable conditions. Friends urged him
to describe himself, for the sake of his own convenience, as a teacher;
but Krishnamurti refused to do so. An official acknowledgement of
his status as a teacher would have produced many of those misleading
implications which he had cast overboard when he dissolved all his
organizations. Krishnamurti's decision may seem pedantic, but it
was the only possible step which could accord with his personal
attitude towards truth.

At the end of a week, spent almost constantly in Krishnamurti's
company, I felt that I could formulate my own opinions about his
teaching. What were the main points of his message? Truth can only
be the result of an inner illumination, and this can only be enjoyed
by one who fully recognizes the many-sidedness of life. We find truth
through permanent inner awareness of our thoughts, feelings and
actions. Only such an awareness can free us automatically from our
shortcomings, or can solve our problems without our striving to
force the solution of them. Life becomes a reality through a loving
self-identification with every one of its moments, and not through
our habitual and mechanical pursuits. No sacrifices of an ascetic or
similar kind are necessary, for our former limitations are eliminated
automatically by full living.

It was not difficult to see that Krishnamurti's message was more
or less the same as that of Christ, of Buddha or indeed of any genuine
religious teacher. All he demanded from people was that they should
live a personal life of inner awareness. This, possible only through
love and thought, opens to us the doors of truth. In such a life none
of our self-created shortcomings — envy, jealousy, hatred and
possessiveness — can exist.

The problem of how far Krishnamurti's language could be under-
stood seemed to me of paramount importance, and I decided to talk
to him once again about it. It was one of my last days in Carmel, and
I was walking with Krishnamurti. 'I have been talking to all sorts of
people who have met you,' I said, 'and I have tried to discover
whether your teaching is as convincing to them as it is to me. M^v
consider it most difficult, and it makes me sad that they should find

284

KRISHNAMURTI IN CARMEL

it so hard to understand what seems to me the simplest truth. I
wonder why God should have made it appear so complicated?' I
sighed, but Krishnamurti only smiled: 'It is not God, but ourselves.
It seems complicated because of our power of free choice.'

'Free choice?' I interrupted in surprise.

'Indeed, it is only our free choice which creates conflicts in our
lives; and conflicts are responsible for deterioration. By free choice
we begin to build up handicaps and complications which we are
forced to drive out one by one if we are to make our way towards
truth.'

'Then we should despair, according to you, just because we have
been given the faculty of free choice? Would it be better if we were
as the animals, which simply follow their dark fate and do not know
what free will means?'

'Not at all. Only the unintelligent mind exercises choice in life.
When I talk of intelligence I mean it in its widest sense, I mean that
deep inner intelligence of mind, emotion and will. A truly intelligent
man can have no choice, because his mind can only be aware of
what is true and can thus only choose the path of truth. An intelligent
mind acts and reacts naturally and to its fullest capacity. It identifies
itself spontaneously with the right thing. It simply cannot have any
choice. Only the unintelligent mind has free will.'

This was rather an unexpected account of free will. 'I have never
come across this conception before,' I said; 'but it sounds convincing.'

'It can be nothing else; it simply is like that.'

I had noticed on various occasions before that he never seemed
conscious of the novelty of some of his pronouncements or of the
unexpected result of a conversation. He never discussed for the sake
of discussion or for my sake but in order to clarify for both of us the
problem under discussion. The reason why he had to expose himself
to the accusation of evasiveness became clear to me. Only truth found
through collaboration joined with personal effort can have any
meaning at all.

Suddenly Krishnamurti stopped: 'Many things became clearer for
me since we started our daily conversations. I meant to tell you the
other day that after one of our first talks I had a particularly vivid
experience of inner awareness of life. I was walking home along the
beach when I became so deeply aware of the beauty of the sky, the
sea ^nd the trees around me that it was almost a sensation of physical
joy. All separation between me and the things around me ceased to

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exist, and I walked home fully conscious of that wonderful unity.
When I got home and joined the others at dinner, it almost seemed
as though I had to push my inner state behind a screen and step
out of it; but, though I was sitting among people and talking of all
sorts of things, that inner awareness of a unity with everything never
left me for a second.'

'How did you come to that state of unity with everything?'
'People have asked me about it before, and I always feel that they
expect to hear the dramatic account of some sudden miracle through
which I suddenly became one with the universe. Of course nothing
of the sort happened. My inner awareness was always there; though
it took me time to feel it more and more clearly; and equally it took
time to find words that would at all describe it. It was not a sadden
flash, but a slow yet constant clarification of something that was
always there. It did not grow, as people often think. Nothing can
grow in us that is of spiritual importance. It has to be there in all its
fullness, and the only thing that happens is that we become more and
more aware of it. It is our intellectual reaction and nothing else that
needs time to become more articulate, more definite.'

I was leaving Carmel next day, and when we reached our favourite
spot under the pines on the hill I knew that this would be our last
talk together. Farewells often bring words to my lips that I might
feel shy of using in less exceptional circumstances. But Krishnamurti's
presence summoned up my emotional faculties without making me
feel a fool. 'Krishnaji,' I said as I took his hands between my own,
'my visit is coming to an end. I am very grateful to you for these
wonderful days. Nevertheless I must talk to you once more about
something which we have discussed many times.'

'What is it? Don't feel shy— go ahead.'

'I appreciate your point of view that your mission is not to act as
a doctor and that you cannot prescribe spiritual pills for people.
But once again: How do you expect to help others? I know you want
them to live their lives in such fullness as to become truthful, and
so truthfully as to be able to give up possessiveness, jealousy and
greed. But such an inner revolution requires a strength possessed
only by few. You have achieved it, and you are standing on a moun-
tain top on which you can live in a state of unity with the world thai

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KRISHNAMURTI IN CARMEL

amounts to constant ecstasy. But you forget that we all, millions
and millions of us, live in the vast plains at the foot of the mountain.
Few could endure a life of continuous ecstasy. It would burn them
up; it would destroy them to live in that permanent awareness which
is essential. I can see it as a goal; I can see that it is the only life worth
living; but I don't see that we are mature enough for it.'

Krishnamurti came quite near me — as he had often done before
— looked deep into my eyes and said in his melodious voice: 'You
are right. They live in the plains and I live, as you call it, on the
mountain top; but I hope that ever more and more human beings
will be able to endure the clear air of the mountain top. A man in-
finitely greater than any of us had to go His own way that led to
Golgotha; no matter whether His disciples could follow Him or not;
no matter whether His message could be accepted immediately or
had to wait for centuries. How can you expect me to be concerned
with what should be done or how it should be done? If you have
once lived on a mountain top, you cannot return to the plains. You
can only try to make other people feel the purity of the air and enjoy
the infinite prospect, and become one with the beauty of life there.'

This time there was no sadness in Krishnamurti's voice, and in
his eyes there was a light that was love, compassion, sympathy, and
that had often before moved me. Not the faintest sign of hopelessness
was in him when we rose to walk slowly up the hill to the house in
which he lived. The sun was setting, and ribbons of green and pink
clouds were stretched across the full length of the sky. Night comes
quickly in these regions, and in a few minutes the light would be gone.

We shook hands and I descended towards the beach as I had done
every day since my arrival at Carmel. It seemed quite natural on
this last day of my visit that the whole of Krishnamurti's life should
unfold itself before me. Is there another life in modern times com-
parable with his? There have been many masters and teachers, yogis
and lamas whom their followers worshipped. But none of them had
been torn out of an ordinary existence to be anointed as the coming
World Teacher. None of them had been accepted by the East and
the West, by the oldest and the youngest continent, by Christians,
Hir-lus, Jews and Moslems, by believers and agnostics. Neither
Ramakrishna nor Vivekananda had been brought up and educated

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for their future messiahship; neither Gandhi nor Mrs. Baker Eddy,
neither Steiner nor Mme. Blavatsky had known such a strange
destiny. Neither in the records of Western mystics nor in the books
of Eastern yogis and saints do we find the story of a 'saint' who after
twenty-five years of preparation for a divine destiny decides to
become an ordinary human being, who renounces not only his
worldly goods but also all his religious claims.

It was quite dark and the first stars were beginning to appear •
The attention was not distracted by the lights and colours and shapes
of the day. The mysterious pattern of Krishnamurti's remarkable
fate was becoming clearer, and I began to understand what he had
meant when he said that till a few years ago life had been a dream
to him and that he had scarcely been conscious of the external
existence around him. Were not those the years of preparation?
Were they not the years in which the man Krishnamurti was trying
to find himself, to replace that former self through whom Mrs.
Besant and Charles Leadbeater, theosophy and a strange credulity,
acted for over twenty years?

Indeed, was not Krishnamurti's a supreme story? The teacher
who renounces his throne at the moment of his awakening, at the
moment when the god in him has to make way for the man, at the
moment when the man can begin to find God within himself? Have
not even the years in which his spirit lingered in dreams been full
of a truth that as yet is too mysterious to be comprehended by us?

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CONCLUSION
THE LIVING GOD

'There can be no doubt that the scientist has
a much more mystic conception of the ex-
ternal world than he had in the last century.*

SIR ARTHUR EDDINGTON.

The number and popularity of the various men and their
teachings described in the foregoing pages must seem surprising
to many readers. Mysticism, occultism and similar movements
have always existed; but for centuries they were the private domain
of Eastern or religious recluses, of small esoteric schools, occasionally
of saints, frequently of fanatics. To-day the situation is different.
Many of the people given up to these researches are scientifically
schooled; and the subjects of their investigations are no longer the
privilege of little sects of initiates who jealously guard them from
the eyes of the world, but are open to everyone anxious to learn.
The legitimate sciences, though reluctantly, are beginning to take
them more seriously than they did twenty or thirty years ago, and
the dividing line between the two is in many instances no longer
visible.

Sir James Jeans, quoted at the beginning of this book, is by no
means the only modern scientist who has to admit the existence of
the world of the spirit. Scientists all over the world are beginning
to do the same. One of the most distinguished in England, Sir
Ambrose Fleming, the perfecter of the two-electrode thermionic
valve, arid thus one of the fathers of modern wireless, declared in
January 1935, in his presidential address to the Victorian Institute
and Philosophical Society of Great Britain, that 'the origin of man
is to be looked for in the creative power of a self-conscious Creator'.
Sir Ambrose admitted that the Biblical miracles cannot be regarded
as superstitions. 'The bodily resurrection of Christ', said the eminent
scientist, ' is one of the most certainly attested facts in human history;
but if so, it certifies all previous Biblical miracles. . . .' Sir Ambrose
went so far as to attack 'those sections of enlightened clergymen'
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FULFILMENTS

who 'deny the possibility of miracle or exceptional action on the
part of Deity', and who assume that 'no events have ever happened
or can happen which are outside of our present limited experience
of Nature'.

Equally startling are the pronouncements of Sir Arthur Eddington
in his American lectures in 1934 at Cornell University. After putting
the weighty question, 'Why should anyone suppose that all that
matters to human nature can be assessed with the measuring rod?'
he asserts * that the nature of all reality is spiritual', and thus acknow-
ledges a power that no scientist in the last century would have
considered worth serious examination. Sir Arthur Eddington
represents an entirely new spirit in science, for he confesses "that
the scientist has a much more mystic conception of the external
world than he had in the last century', and that he 'is not sure that
the mathematician understands this world of ours better than the
poet and the mystic'.

The most revealing conclusion that I reached in the course of
fifteen years of spiritual investigation is that all genuine teachers
are trying to find the same truth. Differences are caused only by the
differences in their states of consciousness, in their origins, or in their
methods. One of them, like Keyserling, may appeal above all to the
imagination; Gurdjieff employs a most complicated system, and
Krishnamurti's influence derives almost entirely from the beauty
of his personality; Ouspensky approaches truth like a surgeon, and
Rudolf Steiner like a scientist who is also a mystic. But they are all
trying to find — and then to sow the seeds of — the same truth.

As Krishnamurti said: 'There is no-one who can give us truth,
since each of us for himself must discern it.' Teachers can only
encourage the efforts which we make for ourselves when they have
pointed out to us the way.

I shall not deal in the following pages with those matters that
may have enriched my mind without influencing my character.
They can be studied in the writings of the teachers themselves. Only
that knowledge will be expounded which was confirmed over and
over again by daily life, for only such knowledge is of real use. Truth
is not what we keep in a bottom drawer for Sunday but what can
affect every moment of our existence. It is unfortunate that most
religions are presented in forms so dogmatic that they can no longer
exert much influence on conduct in life.

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THE LIVING GOD

The principal command of all teachers, irrespective of their race,
creed or method, is that a man must 'know himself'. Thus the
elimination of conventions and habits becomes one of the funda-
mental spiritual laws. The prophet who took the visitor round the
Temple of Apollo at Delphi always pointed first to the inscription
over the entrance: 'Know thyself'. Plutarch in his treatise 'On the
E at Delphi' states: 'The prophet said to the visitor, "Fix these
words in thy memory, for they hold the key to all wisdom." * Only
through self-knowledge can we hope to understand the world as it
actually is and not as it appears through the veils of our imagination.
The Greeks with their distinctively spiritual consciousness clearly
perceived the reason for that paramount truth. In their opinion,
'Only one Being exists always and fills eternity— that is God, who
gives life to all things and who dwells within man. This is why
Apollo says to his worshippers "Know thyself.'"1

The knowledge of oneself is the knowledge of the world inside us,
and the road to truth and thus to God is shortest when we search
for Him within ourselves. Eventually we shall detect Him also in
the outside world, in a tree perhaps or in another person. Once
we have caught a glimpse of truth we comprehend that the inner
union with God is nothing else but a life of the cardinal Christian
virtues. It was one of the most revealing moments of my life when
I grasped for the first time that the life within, the life of the spirit,
is identical with the life as realized to the fullest by Jesus Christ.

There was a period in my life when meditation and contemplation
seemed the most suitable methods for approaching truth. Many
people of the present day have such a mistaken conception of that
method that it may be useful briefly to expound it.

Meditation and contemplation are not identical, though closely
related to each other. Neither requires special gifts or knowledge,
and both are open to everyone. While meditation is deep thinking
about one particular subject with the elimination of all other
th^jghts, contemplation is absolute unification with the subject—

1 Schure, From Sphinx to Christ.
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FULFILMENTS

not of the intellect only but of the whole of our being. Both medita-
tion and contemplation begin with ordinary concentration as we
know it in daily life.

The first essential thing is to calm the rush of our thoughts and to
establish as much peace within as possible. I have mentioned in an
earlier chapter that it is easier to meditate in certain postures of the
body, and that no system has developed that technique better than
hatha yoga. Though genuine yoga, even if learned in the East,
is not of much avail to Westerners, we may deal with its subject
briefly, if only to dispel certain fantastic notions existing about
this method of self-advancement. Besides hatha, or yoga of bodily
control, there are: raja yoga, which develops mainly our conscious-
ness; jnana yoga, which employs chiefly the intellect; karma yoga,
which works through right action; and bhakti yoga, which is the yoga
of religion and love. The differences between the various yogas
are often indiscernible, and at times one may act according to the
commandments of yoga without actually following any yoga system.
Thus, Miraben, Gandhi's English disciple, answered when I asked
her what particular yoga Gandhi followed: 'The mahatma does not
follow any yoga. His whole life is yoga of service and sacrifice. For
him, as for Christ, or for Buddha before him, spiritual exercises
consist in serving the lowest and the poorest, sacrificing himself
constantly on their behalf.' And yet Gandhi's life could be described
as raja yoga, which demands service and self-sacrifice.

In hatha yoga the adept learns the many difficult postures which
help him to certain spiritual attainments. Both the bodily and the
breathing exercises of hatha yoga start simply and end with such
remarkable achievements as standing on one finger or stopping the
breathing for a number of minutes. The most widely known posture,
or asana, as it is called in India, is the simple one of Buddha, with
the right foot resting on the left thigh, and the left foot on the right.

It must not be assumed that it is essential to adopt yoga methods
to succeed in meditation. In fact, only a few Europeans have ever
had genuine success in yoga. But there are also Western asanas,
such as those prescribed by religious brotherhoods or secret societies.
In fact, the Christian posture of kneeling to pray is an asana.

Even Western postures are not essential for meditation or con-
templation. Everyone must try for himself what bodily position
makes him feel most at ease and enables him to forget his bciy.
It may be the lotus posture of Buddha, the kneeling attitude of the

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THE LIVING GOD

Christian religion, or perhaps the ordinary positions of lying flat
in bed or sitting in a chair.

The question of what to meditate about is much simpler than many
people assume. There are, of course, special sentences, formulae and
prayers specially prepared and given by responsible teachers. It
is, however, quite enough to meditate about anything from a tree
in blossom to a kind action.

Intellectual or mental concentration and meditation are only the
first step. Eventually we must transplant the meditation from the
brain to the breast, and later on the subject of our meditation must
fill out the whole of our being. By that time we shall have reached
the stage of contemplation.

Even after the earliest attempts we discover that such an inner
identification produces within us lightness. We see the solutions
of our problems more clearly than we have ever done before, and
we feel as though we were nearer something of great significance.
At the beginning we must be content if the meditation lasts no longer
than a minute, and the contemplation only a second or two. After
persistent attempts and much patience the state of inner clarification
and calm can be achieved at any given moment, and it will then
become the underlying current of our whole day. We eventually
discover that we have established within ourselves a link with
guiding powers, hidden from us before, and leading finally to an
unmistaken realization of God.

Before taking leave of the subject of meditation it must be
emphasized that all exercises done on a basis of yoga require a per-
sonal teacher, cannot be learned from a book and are only taught
in the East. Ordinary meditation and contemplation, as sketched in
these pages, can be done by everyone, but can only serve as a help
and cannot be treated as the main current of our spiritual life.

In the Western world we find in our prayer an exercise comparable
to yoga; and, not unlike yoga, prayer can be more helpful if we know
how to pray. Prayer, like any other form of spiritual concentration,
can be degraded to a mechanical action, or even worse, to a mere
superstition. We should never pray for anything that we might be
able to achieve through our own effort; we should never pray for a
selfish reward; we should never pray for anything that may (even
indirectly) harm someone else. But we might pray for enlightenment
regarding things that we cannot possibly reach with our intellect,
that are unselfish or essential for the performance of a good deed.

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FULFILMENTS

Unbelievers often say: 'If God knows everything, He also knows
my needs, and therefore it is superfluous to pray.' Though God
knows everything He may not wish to impose His will or His help
upon us as long as He has not been asked for them. Let us take for
an illustration the case of a poor man who has a rich friend, aware
of the poor man's need and willing to help. As long as the poor man
does not approach him to ask for help, the rich one may find it
difficult to impose his help upon him. It is, in a way, the same with
prayers. A prayer is an invocation by which we tell God that we
have exhausted all means of solution, and that we find ourselves
forced to beg Him for help.

Besides prayer for personal assistance, there is also prayer for
the sake of others. When Rudolf Steiner was asked during the war
how one was to pray for the safety of those on the battlefields, he
replied that one ought to send out helpful thoughts to the guardian
angel of the person in question rather than to the person directly.
People who pray to God, usually believe in some kind of spiritual
hierarchy. The guardian angel is not a superstition of uneducated
minds but a deep conviction which existed in all religions for
thousands of years, and which, in more spiritual epochs than ours,
was treated by prophets and thinkers alike with the greatest rever-
ence. When asked how to pray to the guardian angel, Steiner
answered that we should try to visualize the angel as standing above
the person, pouring out light and holding in his hands the radiating
star which represents the higher individuality of the person. This
radiating star has been mentioned by Plutarch in his Opera Moralia
as that part of the human spirit that is not tied down to any of our
organic functions, and that is thus connected with eternity even
during our lifetime. According to Steiner, we should send out our
loving thoughts to the vision of the angel carrying the star and
enveloping the person we are praying for with light.

Neither prayer nor contemplation can replace life, for in their
own sphere they are like exercises taken for physical fitness in theirs.
Exercises alone cannot give us health if the rest of our life is not
wholesome.

I shall try to describe how I attempted to live, even when Tjiced
with great difficulties in daily life, on a basis of truth and thus in

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THE LIVING GOD

accordance with the fundamental laws of God. A theoretical God,
approached on Sundays alone, is no God at all. He is only real if
He directs every moment of our life and if we learn by experience
that He does it better than anyone else.

The God in whom we believe only in moments of happiness
matters less than the One who proves Himself to us in moments of
misery. Let us assume that we are faced with a difficulty far exceeding
our power of solution. It may be the loss of a beloved person, the
destruction of our fortune, the danger of losing our job, betrayal by
the person we trusted most, a scandal endangering the whole of our
future, a situation that evokes our most violent jealousy. The worst
thing to do on such occasions is to cling desperately to that which
we are losing. The problem is how to face the new situation without
breaking down. Some people get drunk, others take a drug, or
go on a cruise or try to forget by doubling their work. All these
expedients may be helpful for a while, since they prevent us from
brooding over matters that we cannot change; but they bring only
temporary relief.

Truth alone can provide the real cure. We must try to accept the
new situation as it really is and without succumbing to it. The first
thing to do is to establish for ourselves the facts of the new situation
without viewing them through the tears of grief or resentment. We
must meditate upon it point by point, and we must not allow
hypocrisy to invade our thoughts. We may know that we ought to
face the new situation in a spirit of goodwill and love, but it is no
good to pretend that we are loving if we are not. Such an admission
of the facts of the new situation and of our real emotions makes for
truthfulness. If we proceed to think with honesty our thoughts
become creative and reveal those methods which we should adopt.

Just as we cannot contemplate with our brain alone, so must this
process of thinking be different from the intellectual 'everyday'
thoughts, and must be done with the whole of our being. And yet
we must never lose the consciousness that we are thinking, that we
are identifying ourselves with something outside ourselves. Such a
method of thinking is the 'yoga of action' of which Keyserling spoke
to me. It is, if done persistently and conscientiously, the vital
'thinking' which in Steiner's opinion creates within us 'spiritual
eyes'. We cannot force events that depend upon people, things and
coEJitions beyond our control; but it is in our power to open doors
within, through which we can discern the right road.

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FULFILMENTS

Some people excuse their inability to think by pretending that
they prefer to rely on their instinct. What they call instinct is in most
cases a half-confessed wish magnified by the imagination. The word
imagination is used in this chapter in the way Ouspensky uses it. It
does not describe creative imagination, but that uncontrollable
power within us that distorts truth, that runs away with our thoughts
and leads us to unproductive day-dreams. There exists a power
called instinct, which means the natural faculty for seeing truth
without taking refuge in thought. In Eastern teachings, based on the
doctrine of karma, instinct is often regarded as the result of right
thought in our previous incarnation.

People with a genuine instinct are able to arrive at the right con-
clusions without having to go through the whole process of thinking,
unavoidable for those without instinct. Reliance upon instinct may,
however, be dangerous, for in most cases we mistake imagination
for instinct. Constructive and contemplative thoughts, on the other
hand, leave little room for errors.

It must be understood that identification in thought is not the
same thing as the clinging to a problem in an uncontrolled, emotional
way. The latter is the reverse of facing reality. Ouspensky calls it
destructive imagination, others call it mental self-abuse. The method
of thinking referred to in these pages must be done with the exclusion
of our imagination and, though dispassionately, yet with the passion
of our whole being. Sorrowful pondering over grief destroys thought,
and is a submission to negative emotions.

It is necessary to break the continuity of the narrative at this
point and to investigate the part negative emotions1 play in our
lives, for it is impossible to attain any perception of truth if we
give in to them. If people realized the harm they do themselves by
allowing negative emotions to linger within them, there would be
little evil in the world. Hatred, jealousy, envy, sorrow, greed, re-
sentment do not exist in the region of spirit which is truth; but
the lying faculties of our imagination make them swell beyond all
proportion.

1 No philosophical or psychological system defines the destructive pcr-T of
negative emotions more clearly and convincingly than the one propagated by
Ouspensky.

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THE LIVING GOD

Negative emotions destroy an amount of life energy of which the
ordinary person has no conception. A few minutes' lingering over
negative emotions uses up more energy than man requires for a fully
active life of twenty-four hours.

There exists a machine measuring that waste: it is formed by our
knowledge of ourselves, and it begins to function the moment we
register honestly our reactions to either negative or positive emotions.
Hatred, jealousy and grief muddle both our thoughts and our
feelings. The more we allow them to rule us the more complicated
life becomes, and in the end we are so tied up within that no escape
seems possible. We feel worn out, irritable and deeply ashamed of
ourselves. If, on the other hand, our negative emotions are replaced
by positive ones, if, for example, we meet the person responsible
for our troubles lovingly and openly, we feel freer and happier.
Solutions will suddenly come as though from nowhere, and where
there was muddle there is now simplicity and light. The necessity
for the elimination of negative emotions is an economic as well as a
spiritual law.

The most harmful of all such emotions is fear. Fear destroys both
the vision of truth and the power of right action. If humanity could
overcome fear there would be hardly any unhappiness left in the
world. Few sayings seem to me more helpful than that of an Eastern
sage: 'It is better to be good than to fear evil.' -

Just as negative emotions stand in the way of wisdom and produce
stupidity, so does love create wisdom. Of course it is difficult to
change a feeling of dislike into one of love. The easiest way to achieve
this is either through deep thoughts, in the course of which we dis-
cover that our negative feeling was useless, or in fact only a phantom
of our imagination, or through prayer, in which we include the per-
son we believe we most dislike. At the end of an honest prayer of
such a kind the former uncomfortable feeling disappears and the
difficulty, created by the person for whom we had prayed, becomes
of less significance. Only daily thought or daily prayer of such a kind
can produce a lasting transformation, for fundamental changes are
not worked by sudden miracles but solely by constant daily readjust-
ment. If we find it impossible to pray, then it is best to cut short our
lingering in negative emotions, and to force ourselves time after
time to think about something entirely different.

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From the moment a difficulty in life has been honestly 'thought
over*, the direction for right action discloses itself. Nevertheless
we must not pretend that Christ or God Himself sends us His direct
guidance when we just shut our eyes and keep the pencil ready to
write down His orders. It is rare that creative thought — necessarily
of a divine nature — falls into our lap. We have to evolve it ourselves,
by working our way up towards it. There is Grace, but it rarely
comes without effort. Emotional willingness is not enough to force
Grace to come. Grace is like the sun and the rain. They perform the
miracle of transforming the seed into the plant, the flower and the
fruit, but they cannot do it while the soil is unploughed and the seed
unsown.

VII

The method of facing difficulties described in the preceding pages
became real to me only after life itself confronted me with a problem
of such magnitude that I simply had to translate my knowledge into
action if I did not wish to break down.

I was on my way back from Krishnamurti in California. Three
days before leaving New York on the homeward voyage I received
a letter announcing that sudden and entirely unforeseen circum-
stances were to change the whole basis of my life. I was suddenly
faced with the prospect of giving up my home, which had become
almost a part of me, and, what was much more painful, of abandon-
ing a most precious relationship in my life. On top of everything
else my financial foundations were shaken, and there was hardly
one part of my life that did not suffer injury. Both my personal and
my professional life were affected. It was by far the heaviest blow I
had ever suffered. Things that I used to take for granted were sud-
denly gone, and I was faced with the prospect of founding an entirely
new existence. I could do nothing to alleviate the blow, and had to
start on my return journey without being able to make the slightest
move. Three hours after the fatal letter had arrived I was still sitting
on the bed in my room at the hotel, repeating to myself thought-
lessly over and over again that all this was only a nightmare and
that soon I should wake up. What frightened me most was that
many of my spiritual convictions had been built up on ct.;ain
premises that were now being broken in pieces. For the three

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THE LIVING GOD

days before my departure I went through life as a man who was
dazed.

The first morning on board ship I decided that the new situation
simply had to be faced, no matter how painful it was. If all my
spiritual knowledge, gained from many years' study, was of no avail
at such an important crisis, then it was nothing but a lie. The
situation required a translation of knowledge into action.

The illumination — I can find no less pretentious word to describe
the experience — came during the very first morning. It did not come
like a sudden miracle but it grew slowly out of a determined effort
during a three hours' walk round the deck of the ship. My effort
might have been less successful had I not just been staying with
Krishnamurti, and had my spiritual determination not been
strengthened through his influence. During my long walk round the
deck at first I was anxious to eliminate all ill feeling, resentment and
self-pity, and to produce within myself an atmosphere of detachment
in which there would be room for honest thinking. After that I tried to
face my new situation in the manner described earlier in this chapter.

I noticed that a change was taking place within me. I had not
found a solution for those problems that were, as I knew, beyond my
powers; but I no longer worried about them. The fear that had for
the last few days been dragging down each of my thoughts was gone,
and for the first time I slept all through the night. While previously
thoughts of my difficulties would give me acute distress, I could now
observe them dispassionately, as though I were dealing with the
problems of someone else.

Such an enlightenment can, as a rule, be produced only by a thrust
sharp enough to pierce the crust of habit and convention. Real joy
and real pain can both open doors through which we perceive truth.
Great sorrow shakes us and awakens faculties that can discriminate
between reality and illusion — a shock caused by great joy evokes a
feeling of gratitude so deep that all petty feelings and conventional
ideas melt away therein. But neither sorrow nor happiness by itself
can bring a solution to our worries. We must make an effort to find
it. When happiness or sorrow becomes chronic, then it becomes
dangerous. Permanent sorrow is produced by the exaggerated pic-
tures of our imagination; the longer we allow ourselves to dwell
in that state the further we drift from truth. Permanent happiness
te:. Js to make most people selfish, oblivious of truth, uninterested
in anything outside their own happiness.

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FULFILMENTS

By the time I arrived back in England I understood fully what
Krishnamurti had meant when he spoke of the necessity of suffering
for the attainment of truth.

The inner freedom that I had found did not make me forget my
difficulties once and for all. It was still hard to get used to the idea
that so many things that had contributed to my happiness were lost.
But the new inner freedom gave me a much deeper sense of happi-
ness, and the things I was losing had no longer their former meaning
to me. I had many times to fight over again my battle of that first
morning at sea, and each time my victory gave me new strength to
grapple with newer difficulties. Eventually it almost became like
light streaming into a room without anyone drawing the blinds.

VIII

Though I had always suspected that success can be gained only
if we act not for the sake of success but for the sake of whatever
we happen to be doing, I had never been able to live that truth in
daily life. I often pretended to myself that I did certain things merely
for their own sake, but deep down I knew only too well that I was
constantly watching the chances of success. The new inner 'illu-
minations' enabled me at last not only to preach but to live the gospel
of * doing for doing's sake'. I made my decisions not with regard
to their possible success but merely because contemplative thought
I had revealed them to me. And it became obvious to me that if
acted absolutely in such a way and without any regard for a possible
success, then that success was sure to follow automatically.

Even more startling was another discovery. My first misfortune,
of which I had been notified by the letter I received in New York,
was only the beginning of a long series of worries that followed one
another almost daily after I arrived home. I was struggling con-
stantly between giving in wearily and going on translating my
spiritual knowledge into action. It was an incessant fight between
hopelessness and faith, between resignation and the belief in a higher
justice and higher necessity. But the continuous efforts to face
reality were bringing new glimpses of truth almost every day and
they disclosed to me eventually the last and most important stage
of how to act in conformity with truth. No teacher and no study
could have given me that last realization.

With a thrill deeper than any I had ever experienced, I perceived

300

THE LIVING GOD

at last the most successful way of finding a solution for diffi-
culties that defy all our own resources. It was the way of Christi-
anity as it was shown to us originally before it was cheapened by
dogmas, compulsion, self-righteousness and mechanization. I under-
stood at last what it meant not to force events but to let them solve
themselves. It was not evasiveness nor was it fatalism but merely
trust in the inevitable victory of truth, in the power of God. It was
the admission of the superiority of the divine method over even the
cleverest method invented by the human brain.

Even people who believe that God acts from within us often find
it difficult to 'locate' Him. There is only one answer to this — God's
most evident instrument within us is our conscience. Whenever our
intellect is unable to point the way we must listen to our conscience.
It must be understood, of course, that conscience should be em-
ployed only as a 'controlling station' for actions directed by us, and
as a 'power station' only when the decisions do not depend on
ourselves.

What is conscience? It is the guardian of the very best within us.

Often we think that it is within our power to alter in our favour
the trend of events by preventing or forcing certain incidents. This
applies most of all to the countless decisions that depend upon
others. The surest way to act in such circumstances is to obey the
commands of our conscience.

Of course, even our conscience has become mechanical in its action.
We have, therefore, to find our way back to it, and this can best be
done through contemplative thought. After having reached our con-
science— and not that imaginary conscience which is only the result
of upbringing, social environment and traditions — we ought to listen
to it instead of obeying the commands of our brain. We must forget
all about the possible success or failure of our action and try to
realize our highest ideals.

At first such a method will seem hopelessly idealistic and lacking
in all contact with daily life. And yet to act according to our highest
ideals is the only method that does not fail even in the most com-
plicated entanglements of our life. Driven by fear and lack of faith,
we try to affect the trend of events more than we are entitled to, and
we give God no chance to play His part. Hence the confusion we
achieve whenever we are faced with a truly complicated situation.

T^'st in the wisdom of higher powers does not exclude discrimina-
tion. Lack of discrimination leads to fanaticism, and the fanaticism

301

FULFILMENTS

of righteousness is as far removed from truth as its opposite. A life
directed by our conscience with the help of discrimination can never
deteriorate into fanaticism. In fact, it is in the noblest lives that we
find measure and discrimination. 'A man's heart', I once read in a
book of Eastern wisdom, 'does not lie to him — it is always the brain
that lies.' This is one of the deepest of truths. When we state that the
convictions of the heart are more valuable than those of the brain,
we naturally do not refer to decisions of a purely intellectual or
mechanical kind.

The commands of the heart can be followed only if they are
supported by courage and faith. Courage is necessary so that we
may be able to abandon fear; and faith so that we may trust God.
Had not Keyserling told me in Darmstadt that spirit was for him
the result of courage and faith? What he called spirit someone else
calls truth or God. (People who object to the word God may replace
it by any word that expresses in their opinion the directing impulse
of life, such as 'the absolute', the 'sense of life', or the 'central power
station', or any other of the fashionable names.)

My new inner awareness allowed me to make several un-
expected spiritual discoveries. One of them was that nothing in
life happens accidentally, and that every individual grief I had
suffered had been a needed 'lesson'. I also understood that it
was rather 'kindness' on the part of fate that put me through all
my trials, and that gave practical effect to my former theoretical
'lessons'.

The sceptic will say: 'If you believe that everything in life works
according to a plan, then it should be possible to discover the plan
by some logical system. If this be so, life ought to be rational, and
yet we know that it is not so.' Indeed, life is not rational, not con-
sistent with reason and logic. Rational systems can explain the ex-
ternal manifestations of life only. The system by which life as a
whole is run is not rational but spiritual, and cannot be compre-
hended by intellectual means. Mystics, spiritual teachers, certain
types of thinkers, poets or artists catch glimpses of it. The founders
of religions, the prophets, such seers as the Delphic pythia, some of
the Christian saints, men like Plato, Paracelsus, Jakob Boc^me,
Steiner, one or two of the great Jewish rabbis, poets like Blake,

302

THE LIVING GOD

Goethe, Wordsworth, painters like Raphael see a spiritual structure
where other people try to comprehend it with their brains.

The pattern created by the spiritual system is what we call destiny
or fate. The more and the harder we try to wake up and to see truth,
the more the pattern of fate reveals itself. Accidents exist only for the
blind. But the doctrine of fate must never deteriorate into fatalism;
for, besides fate or, as the East calls it, karma, there is also, not
exactly free will, as we wrongly call it, but freedom of understanding.

Let us for a moment consider the two directing powers called fate
and free understanding. Fate is the power that carries us along
through life and that we cannot escape: it embraces such different
elements of our existence as the century in which we were born, our
race and nationality, our intellectual and social class, our physical
features, our good and bad qualities. We cannot escape fate, but we
can work in conformity with it. That is where freedom comes in.
We are free to comprehend the facts given by fate, and to discriminate
according to our intelligence. Our comprehension and our discrimin-
ation shape our will. Both fate as it is given to us, and freedom of
understanding as we use it, work together and can never be separated.
They are like the horizontal and vertical faces of the steps in a stair-
case— the one cannot exist without the other.

One of the first people in recent history to perceive clearly the
difference between free will and free understanding was Rudolf
Steiner. Only a few people before his time discovered that it is not
the will that is free but our power of understanding that sets our will
in motion. Summing up, we can say that fate and personal freedom
act side by side, as the divine and the human powers within us. For
it is wrong to assume that God's knowledge of our future necessarily
determines it. Seeing something is not the same thing as coming to
a decision about it.

The truth of the above experiences was proved to me by my own
power of understanding; and afterwards by the way life responded
to my actions and showed me that the doctrine of fate and freedom
was not an intellectual theory but a truth confirmed almost daily by
facts. I had always felt that there was a direct connection between
our conduct and the way fate treated us. But the proofs of such a
correction were too vague to be accepted intellectually. The main
difficulty in the establishment of a definite law was that my actions

303

FULFILMENTS

and the apparent answers of fate were separated by intervals of time
too long to allow me to discover the link between the two.

This changed fundamentally once I began to make a real effort to
allow truth to direct my actions. The difference between the working
of fate in the earlier and the later days was a difference both of
visibility and of speed. Whereas the missing link had formerly been
almost indiscernible, now it was becoming clearer every day. Occa-
sionally I could almost foretell in what way fate would react to my
own movements; and at times these reactions would take place
within twenty-four hours. The laws evolved from my experiences
could be summarized thus: (a) The more consciously we act in life,
the more clearly the pattern of life is revealed; and (b) The better
we know what is right and wrong, the more quickly does fate act.

I understood beyond all doubt that both good and bad thoughts,
emotions and deeds evoke corresponding reactions on the part of
fate. I do not call good and bad what are considered as such by
conventional morality, but what we are told by the voice of our
conscience and by the very best within ourselves. (The best within
ourselves always commands not only a truthful but also a loving
attitude in which there is no room for negative emotions. Thus
truthful action must always be also loving action. In the realms of
the spirit truth and love become almost identical.)

Let me illustrate my last discovery by an example. Suppose I
should try to achieve a certain success by a subtle lie, a pronounce-
ment that was not quite fair to another person, an attempt to in-
fluence someone in a manner that could be defended intellectually
but would not withstand the judgement of conscience. Formerly I
often succeeded in my aims, without incurring any punishment from
fate. Since, however, I began to see the meaning of truth, retribution
would come almost immediately and so unmistakably that there
was no doubt of the direct connection between my misdeed and its
punishment. Even if I achieved success at first something would
happen the next day to turn it into failure. If, on the other hand, I acted
in accordance with my better self, success was inevitable. This was
true not only of my actions but equally of my most secret thoughts
and emotions. There was no escape from conscience: if I tried to
cheat it, fate immediately retorted by punishing me.

The greater our knowledge the greater our responsibility, and we
are forgiven our sins as long as we do not know that we are signing;
the moment we are conscious of the lie that every bad deed implies,

304

THE LIVING GOD

we no longer have the right to sin. If fate is kind, it warns us by
sending punishments without delay. If we go on committing such
sins as thinking evil, lying to others or to ourselves, revelling in
negative emotions, the punishments become heavier. Eventually we
realize that we shall ruin ourselves unless we cease to sin.

In the introduction to this book there is the sentence: 'Conditions
to-day would be different if the men who directed our destinies had
been driven more by conscious faith than by the forces of scepticism.
. . .' The reader will understand now that no Utopian idealism was
aimed at in those words. The existing political, economic and social
muddle and the deep dissatisfaction of individuals are a result of
the universal lie that forms the basis of modern life. Instead of
beholding the truth as it is, the nations and their leaders accept the
distorted pictures of their own imagination. Instead of approaching
the difficulties before them in a spirit of truth and love, they approach
them filled to the brim with negative emotions, with fear, jealousy,
pride, with determination to employ all kinds of intellectual tricks.
They accept hasty conclusions and are satisfied with half-thoughts
Their attitude is one in which intellect and emotions do not collabor-
ate intelligently but fight independent battles, struggling with one
another. How can anything be achieved in the world if the men who
are supposed to direct it employ every method except the right one;
if they organize politics, economics and the social life of countries
before even attempting to organize themselves; if they expect the
nations to trust them, and yet themselves have no faith in God or
in any higher intelligence than their own? It seems a miracle that the
world can survive this general spiritual anarchy.

I have often heard people say: 'What is the good of my being
decent if everyone round me cheats? If others consented to be decent,
I too would behave decently.' For all it is worth, such a remark
forms one of the most popular excuses for most misdeeds and follies.
The answer to it is that we should not behave decently for ethical
purposes or to convert others, but merely for our own sake. By living
in accordance with the highest within ourselves we may deprive our-
selves of the weapons of that astuteness that we suspect our enemies
of employing, but we submit ourselves to an intelligence that is more
efficient than that of the cleverest of our enemies. Instead of trying
u 305

FULFILMENTS

to force events that are beyond our powers we replace the brittle
arms of our limited intellect by mightier weapons.

Far be it from me to preach ethics of one sort or another. All I
am attempting is to show from personal experience that we ought
to act according to the noblest elements within us merely for the sake
of solving our difficulties more efficiently. A life lived in that way is
not a life of negative submission, of lazy expectancy, or responsi-
bility eschewed. It is a life of much wider consciousness and of con-
stant inner activity in which spiritual inertia plus physical activity
have been replaced by constant awareness plus physical economy.

And this is the only life in which the God within us can cease to
be merely an abstraction. It is a life in which the God within us
emerges from the shadows of our ignorance, and steps forth to
become the living power that commands all our life. It is the God
that makes of every day a Sunday. It is the only living God.

306

BIBLIOGRAPHY

It is almost impossible to compile the full bibliography of a book
which narrates experiences stretching over more than fifteen years.
Besides, the men described in this volume are approached in a per-
sonal rather than in an intellectual way. Thus, though I have read
most of the publications about them, there may exist several books
that have escaped my attention. Even so, the following list covers
most of the important publications that are mentioned in this book,
or were helpful in its writing.

PART ONE: THE UNKNOWN CONTINENT

INTRODUCTION : 'TRUTH IN KENSINGTON GARDENS'

The quotations from Dean Inge are taken from a book English
Mystics (Murray). It is a collection of lectures delivered as far back
as 1906. It is one of the most lucid books on the subject and it gives
some of the profoundest and yet clearest descriptions of true
mysticism known to me. Preface to Morals, by the popular and
brilliant American critic and publicist, Walter Lippmann, is a
provocative book about the attitude of modern man with regard to
spiritual truth.

CHAPTER ONE: * WISDOM IN DARMSTADT'

The most thorough English book on Keyserling is Introduction to
Keyserling (Jonathan Cape) by Mrs. Mercedes Gallagher Parks.
It is a very conscientious analysis of Keyserling's writings, but deals
very little with their author. There are several French books about
Keyserling. The most important are La Sagesse de Darmstadt, a
critical study by Ernest Seilleire, and La Philosophic de Hermann
Keyserling by Maurice Boucher. The Italian Filippo Burzio published
two volumes of Portraits in which we find much about Keyserling's
philosophy. A brilliant though sarcastic portrait of Keyserling has
ber :_ painted by the American author Will Durant in his Adventures
in Genius.

307

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Among Key selling's own works The Travel Diary of a Philosopher
was the most widely read and is still one of the author's most enter-
taining books. South American Meditations (both published by
Cape), which came out more than ten years later, is considered by
Keyserling his magnum opus. It is more difficult to read than the
Diary, but is full of stimulating ideas and an altogether typical work
of its author. For my own liking it is somewhat too long and too
redundant — but these are peculiarities of Keyserling's style.

CHAPTER Two: 'EPISODES IN MODERN LIFE'

As far as I know, there are no books in English on Stefan George.
Since I am dealing with George from the purely personal point of
view, I have resisted the temptation to find out how far English
literary scholarship has penetrated into the mystery of George's
personality and poetry. I found the most useful among German
books Stefan George by the late Friedrich Gundolf, one of George's
closest pupils, who became in his later years the famous professor of
Literature at the University of Heidelberg. Faithful to George's
doctrine of secrecy in personal matters, it gives only the faintest
outline of his life, but provides a very profound — though at times
cumbersome — analysis of his work. Die Ersten Buecher Stefan
Georges by Eduard Lachmann is a much simpler, less important
and yet scholarly study of George's poetry. (Both books have been
published by Georg Bondi, Berlin, George's own publishers.)

Bo Yin R&, or rather his doctrine, has been described at some
length in Felix Weingartner's Bo Yin Ra (Rhein Verlag, Basle, 1923),
and Bo Yin Ra the man — in a biographical sketch compiled by
Robert Winspeare (published in 1930 by R. Hummel, Leipzig).
The most instructive of the various publications on Bo Yin R& is the
German pamphlet Weshalb Bo Yin Ra? by Koeber-Staehlin. (Bo
Yin Ra's books have been published by Koebersche Verlagsbuch-
handlung, Basel.)

CHAPTER THREE: 'OCCULT TRUTH'

Books on Steiner are mostly dedicated to individual aspects of
anthroposophy. A general study dealing with the whole of hi- life
and doctrine does not exist, and the two chapters in this volume

308

BIBLIOGRAPHY

seem to be the first attempt of that kind. But no books about Steiner
are as enlightening as his own. His literary legacy is so enormous that
only some of his most important books can be quoted here. Among
them are An Outline of Occult Science, Knowledge of the Higher
Worlds (which gives Steiner's method for the development of second
sight); Christianity as a Mystical Fact (an important contribution
to the mystery of the life of Jesus Christ), Philosophy of Spiritual
Activity (one of the earliest books revealing the new Weltanschauung,
crystallized later in anthroposophy), and, above all, his autobiog-
raphy The Story of My Life, which ends unfortunately with the year
1912. This somewhat difficult book gives the story of Steiner's inner
development rather than an account of his life, and it unfolds the
logical way that led step by step to the final establishment of anthro-
posophy. Steiner's attitude towards the war and his relationship
with General von Moltke are described in a German volume con-
sisting mainly of documents and of Steiner's own pronouncements
and articles. It was published in 1933 under the title Rudolf Steiner
wdhrend des Weltkriegs. A moving account of Steiner is given by
Friedrich Rittelmeyer in his Rudolf Steiner Enters My Life (George
Roberts, 1929). This little book about the friendship of the two men
discloses incidentally the charming personality of its author. Of a
similar character are the two personal books by the Swiss poet
Albert Steffen Begegungen mil Rudolf Steiner and In Memoriam,
which gives a poignant picture of Steiner's death.

Edward Schure, whose Les Grands Initids and From Sphinx to
Christ are quoted in this chapter, was a French mystic and writer on
metaphysics who died only a few years ago. Though certain readers
may find it difficult to accept the author's enthusiasm, which at
times seems to sweep him off his feet, they will acknowledge Schur6's
knowledge of ancient mysticism and of Greek mythology, and the
soundness of many of his spiritual perceptions. Schur6 was deeply
impressed by Steiner's insight into the world of the spirit and
especially by Steiner's Christology. The origin of certain principles
of clairvoyance propagated by Steiner can be found in that mys-
terious little book Nuptice Chymicce, Christiani Rosenkreutz9 Anno
1459. by Valentin Andreae, published in 1604. It is a purely esoteric
book and is bound to disappoint readers unprepared for such fare

309

BIBLIOGRAPHY

PART TWO: THE ENGLISH ADVENTURE

INTRODUCTION: 'THE ENGLISH SCENE'

New Country (Hogarth Press) is an interesting collection of essays,
poetry and fiction by some of the representatives of English literature
of the last few years. Those interested in the British Israel Movement
will find its comprehensive story and its principles in Notes and
Queries on the Origin of British Israel by Helen Countess of Radnor
(The Marshall Press, 1925).

CHAPTER ONE: 'THE THRONE THAT WAS CHRIST'S'

A serious book on Krishnamurti is Krishnamurti by the French
author Carlo Suare (published in 1932, Edition Adyar, Paris). Very
interesting are the rather outspoken chapters about Krishnamurti
in Mr. Theodore Besterman's brilliant biography Mrs. Annie Besant
(Kegan Paul, 1934). There is a biography of Krishnamurti by Lilly
Heber (Allen & Unwin, 1931), containing some useful information,
but too uncritical and chaotic to be of great value. The ordinary
reader will find little satisfaction in the large volume of theosophical
literature on Krishnamurti: it is altogether too credulous and un-
critical. Few modern personalities have roused the curiosity of the
press more than Krishnamurti, and articles about him have appeared
constantly for twenty-five years, though only a few of them are above
the level of sensationalism.

The choice of Krishnamurti's own writings — prose or poetry —
must be left to the individual taste. They are all written rather in
the same Eastern lyrical strain, and are far less impressive than
Krishnamurti's spoken words. His writings have been published by
Allen & Unwin, London, and the Star Publishing Trust.

CHAPTER Two: 'PORTRAIT OF A "PERFECT
MASTER" '

I am told that the former editor of Everyman is preparing a
biography of Shri Meher Baba. The best and most complete account
of Baba in existence can be found in Paul Brunton's exciting A

310

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Search in Secret India (Rider, 1934). There have been many articles
about Baba, good and bad. In December 1934 John Bull published
a most damning article in which Baba was accused of what amounts
to financial fraud. John Bull called him * a rather curious financial
adventurer', and concluded with the words 'we suggest that the
"fake" messiah might be regarded as an undesirable alien and be
refused admission to this country'. Certain publications by Baba's
own followers, such as the Meher Gazette published in India, are
too childish to be taken seriously.

CHAPTER THREE: *THE MAN WHOSE GOD is A MILLIONAIRE'

I found the most useful among the many publications on Dr.
Buchman Oxford and the Groups (Basil Blackwell, Oxford). This
book is the composite work of twelve different authors and it
analyses Buchmanism in connection with such different subjects as
education, religion, the universities, social problems. The writers
try to be impartial: they praise where praise is due and condemn
where criticism seems justified. It is an important contribution
to the history of Buchmanism. The amusing book Saints Run Mad
(John Lane, 1934) by Marjorie Harrison is somewhat biased. The
author associated intimately with the Oxford Group Movement and
studied it seriously though dispassionately. In her entertaining book,
to which the Bishop of Durham has written the foreword, she gives
us firsthand glimpses of some of those aspects of Buchmanism that
an ordinary 'sinner', unaccustomed to the wanton ways of the
groupers, may find hard to believe. The most famous book on Buch-
manism is For Sinners Only by A. J. Russell — the account of the
conversion of a journalist to Buchmanism. For several years the
Groups regarded this chatty narrative as a kind of official history
of their movement. It is only since they realized the harmful effect
of that book on all thinking people that they have ceased to identify
themselves with it. More serious is What is the Oxford Group? by
the 'Layman with a notebook' (Oxford University Press). It is a
survey of the principles of the Groups. Why I believe in the Oxford
Group? by Jack C. Winslow (Hodder & Stoughton, 1934) is rather
more primitive. There exist a great many other books and pamphlets
written by members of the Oxford Group Movement. Most of them
repeat the same stories, argue with the same arguments and betray

311

BIBLIOGRAPHY

the same cheerful credulity which we find in every member and every
activity of the movement. A detailed account of the unfortunate
misdeeds of a Buchmanite is given in Up for Murder, A Selection
of famous South African Murder Trials, by Benjamin Bennett
(Hutchinson & Co.). The book Le Grand Secret mentioned in this
chapter is one of the few valuable modern books on occultism by
Eliphas Levi, the French occultist of the last century whose real name
was (the Abbe) Alphonse Louis Constant.

CHAPTER FOUR: 'MIRACLE AT THE ALBERT HALL'

George Jeffreys published two books Healing Rays and Pentecostal
Rays (Elim Publishing Company). The former of the two contains
a few personal statements about the beginnings of the author's
remarkable career. On the whole, both books are simple biblical
studies, in which Jeffreys tries to establish a faultless link between
the fundamentalist principles of his own doctrine and that contained
in the Bible.

CHAPTER FIVE: 'WAR AGAINST SLEEP*

There is no better way of approaching Ouspensky than by reading
his two books Tertium Organum and A New Model of the Universe
(both published by Kegan Paul). They are important contributions
to modern thought, and no-one interested seriously in the subjects
treated in this volume should miss reading them. Though the Model
is a more scientific and much longer book than the more entertaining
Tertium Organum, I should give preference to it: it is more important
and more startling in its scientific discoveries and deductions.

CHAPTER Six: 'HARMONIOUS DEVELOPMENT OF MAN'

The letters by D. H. Lawrence quoted in this chapter appeared in
Lorenzo in Taos (Martin Seeker) by Mrs. Mabel Dodge, ? most
interesting American, who was Lawrence's hostess in New Mexico,
and who is considered one of the most stimulating personalities in
American intellectual circles.

312

BIBLIOGRAPHY

PART THREE: FULFILMENTS

INTRODUCTION: 'ARYAN GODS'

The only book mentioned in this chapter is Der Mythus des XX
Jahrhunderts (Hoheneichen Verlag Miinchen, 1934) by Alfred
Rosenberg, who, besides being the head of the Department of
Foreign Affairs of the Nazi Party, is also the cultural leader of the
Nazi movement. Next to Hitler's Mein Kampfthe Mythus is the most
important book of the Nazi ideology. It is a review of the whole
history of civilization written from the aspect of race purity and the
superiority of the German nation. The number of historical facts
contained in this book is enormous — but they are supported by a
knowledge that is muddled and distorted. Western readers accus-
tomed to the acknowledged traditions of scholarship will find Herr
Rosenberg's arbitrary and fantastic deductions too childish for
serious consideration. But his book illustrates vividly the low level
and the perversions of the Nazi minds even among their 'intellectual*
leaders.

All the important books in connection with Keyserling and
Krishnamurti have been described in the first part of this bib-
liography.

CHAPTER Two: 'THE TESTAMENT OF RUDOLF STEINER'

The many branches of anthroposophical science either created by
Steiner himself or since developed by his followers have been ex-
pounded in numerous publications. Steiner laid down his principles
in books and lectures, in which he dealt with every branch of
anthroposophy. His most instructive pronouncements on Education
can be found in The New Art of Education, The Education of the
Child and the two series of lectures Lectures to Teachers and Essen-
tials of Education. His ideas on medicine are contained in his
Fundamentals of Therapy, Outline of Anthroposophical Medical
Research and Four Lectures to Doctors. Steiner always tried to
stimulate his pupils to work independently along the lines suggested
by LLn, and thus to obtain individual results. The records of these
results are contained in innumerable publications that have appeared

313

BIBLIOGRAPHY

since his death. Important among them are the books by Dr. L.
Kolisko about biological, chemico-astronomical and physiological
discoveries made by her in laboratory work. Her publications, which
are purely scientific and cannot in consequence be very fully appre-
ciated by the lay reader, contain truly revolutionary evidence of
the connections between planetary rhythms and biological life.
One of her most important books is Working of the Stars in Earthly
Substances (2 volumes). Many of Dr. Kolisko's books are profusely
illustrated with photographs showing the novelty of hundreds of
experiments made by the author.

There exist various publications by Steiner's medical followers,
such as the writings of Dr. Werner Keelin, who specializes in the
cancer cure originated by Steiner, or the writings of a more general
kind by Dr. Ita Wegman. Since anthroposophy treats the world as a
whole, many anthroposophical books cannot be pigeonholed accord-
ing to subjects. Thus a book by Dr. Guenther Wachsmuth, The
Etheric Formative Forces (2 volumes), covers most of the subjects of
anthroposophy. It is a work of scientific character, yet comprehensi-
ble enough to be enjoyed by anyone. Other important anthropo-
sophical authors are Dr. Johannes Stein, Dr. Carl Unger, Dr.
Ehrenfried Pfeiffer, Ernst Bindel, Dr. E. Vreede and George Kauf-
mann.

There are innumerable publications about every branch of
anthroposophy. In most countries in which there are anthroposophi-
cal farmers there exist corresponding agricultural publications. In
England an Anthroposophical Agricultural Foundation publishes a
quarterly magazine Notes and Correspondence and pamphlets on
various agricultural subjects.

There are two main English centres for the publication of an-
throposophical literature: The Rudolf Steiner Publishing Co., and
the Anthroposophical Publishing Co.

CONCLUSION: 'THE LIVING GOD'

The quotations from Edward Schure are taken from the chapter
'The Hellenic Miracle' in From Sphinx to Christ. Plutarch's quota-
tions come from his Opera Moralia, especially the treatises ' On the
E at Delphi' and 'On the Cessation of Oracles', one of the t^ost
metaphysical of Plutarch's writings.

314

BIBLIOGRAPHY

On the subject of yoga there exist many books, but very few of
those written by Europeans are of much value. One of the best short
expositions of yoga is contained in Ouspensky's New Model of the
Universe^ Very interesting are the accounts of firsthand yoga experi-
ences of a European in Paul Brunton's Search in Secret India,
already mentioned. The author worked for a number of years under
Eastern yogis in India. It may be added that, unlike most European
authors who boast of their practical knowledge of yoga, Mr. Brun-
ton's experiences are entirely genuine.

315

INDEX

Abdullah, Achmed, 189, 203
Andreae, Valentin, 62, 309
Apponyi, Count, 215
Aristotle, 54, 56-8, 270
August Wilhelm, Prince of Prussia,
36

Babajan, Shri Hazrat, 108, 117

Bach, Johann Sebastian, 26

Balfour, Arthur, 217

Bankhead, Tallulah, 108

Beardsley, Aubrey, 40

Beck, Leo, 30

Beethoven, Ludwig van, 177

Bennett, Benjamin, 312

Bergson, Henri, 215, 270

Bertram, Ernst, 41

Besant, Mrs. Annie, 53, 78, 81, 83-

7, 92, 93, 103, 173, 225, 227, 229,

237, 261-4, 276-8, 288, 310
Bessaraboff, Nicholas, 164
Besterman, Theodore, 86, 103, 261,

262, 310
Bibliander, 142
Bindel, Ernst, 314
Bismarck, Countess Goedela (see

Keyserling)
Bismarck, Prince Otto von, 26, 206,

217, 224

Blake, William, 18, 302
Blavatsky, Mine. H. P., 173, 189,

227, 288

Boehme, Jakob, 63, 302
Boucher, Maurice, 307
Bourdelle, Antoine, 85-6
Bo Yin Ra, 43-5, 308
Bragdon, Claude, 163-5
Bruce, Virginia, 108
Brunton, Paul, 110, 115, 116, 117,

310, 315

Bruning, Dr., 206
Buchman, Dr. Frank, 45, 78, 79,

141-62,229,311
Budona, 30, 60, 99, 105, 152, 167,

177, 226, 229, 284, 292

Bulow, Prince, 20, 206
Burzio, Filippo, 307

Cancrin, Countess, 27
Chamberlain, Houston Stewart, 27,

Chevalier, Maurice, 108
Christ, Jesus, 53, 58, 64, 65, 73, 74,

79, 99, 105, 125, 131, 150, 153,

161, 209, 229, 263, 278, 284, 291,

292, 309

Collison, Harry, 242
Constant, Alphonse Louis (see

Eliphas Levi)
Cooper, Gary, 108
Cosgrave, John O'Hara, 203
Coward, Noel, 76
Cr£pieux-Jamin, 224-5
Crossman, R. H. S., 146, 148, 159
Czernin, Count, 20

Dalai Lama, 203

Dalcroze, 185

Dante, 21

David, King, 78

Debussy, Claude, 94

De La Warr, Lady Muriel, 80, 81,

Dietrich, Marlene, 108
Disraeli, 206

Dodge, Mrs. Mabel, 186, 312
Dorzhieff, Hambo Akvan (see

Gurdjieff)

Douglas, James, 106, 110
Doumer, President, 160
Dressier, Marie, 108
Duncan, Isadora, 185
Dunlop, D. N., 256
Durant, Will, 307
Durham, Bishop of, 144, 311

Eddington, Sir Arthur, 17, 289-90
Eddy, Mrs. Baker, 288
Edward VIII, 79
Einstein, Albert, 44, 165, 204

317

INDEX

Eliot, T. S., 76

Ellis, Havelock, 215

Ernst, Ludwig, Grand Duke of

Hesse, 29, 31-3, 35-6, 216
Estelrich, Joan, 235
Eyck, Van, 35

Fairbanks, Douglas, 108
Fichte, I. H., 53
Fichte, J. G., 53
Flaubert, Gustave, 27
Fleming, Sir John Ambrose, 289-90
Forster-Nietzsche, Frau, 52
Frederick the Great, 26, 219
Freud, Siegmund, 44, 215, 270
Frick, Dr., 235

Gallagher Parks, Mrs. Mercedes,

26, 28, 307

Gandhi, 105, 110,226,292
Gasset, Jose Ortega Y., 215
George V., H.M. King, 123
George, King of Greece, 144
George, Stefan, 24, 38-42, 67, 76,

78, 204-5, 227, 308
Ghenghis Khan, 25
Gide, Andre, 269
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, 24, 32,

40, 41, 51, 205, 210, 227, 249, 302
Gundolf, Friedrich, 41, 308
GurdjiefF, George Ivanovitch, 79,

174-5, 181-203

HaJdane, Lord, 217
Hamilton, Loudon, 152
Harrison, Miss Marjorie, 145-6,

153,311

Heber, Lilly, 97, 310
Hesse, Grand Duchess of, 31, 32, 35
Hindenburg, Paul von, 68
Hitler, Adolf, 27, 206-12, 313
Homer, 21
Hoyos, Count, 51
Huxley, Aldous, 215, 269

Inge, Dean, 21, 28, 66, 102, 307
Isvolsky, Alexander Petrovitch, 20

Jacks, Dr. L. P., 151

Jaloux, Edmond, 213, 215
James, William, 259

Jeans, Sir James, 21, 289
Jeffers, Robinson, 281-3
Jeffers, Mrs. Robinson, 281-3
Jeffreys, George, 79, 119-40, 31
Jinarajadasa, C., 93
Johnston, Alva, 142, 143, 151
Joyce, James, 269

Kant, Immanuel, 26, 27, 270
Kantorowicz, E., 41
Kassner, Rudolf, 27
KaufTmann, George, 314
Keelin, Dr. Werner, 314
Kerenski, Alexander Feodorevitch,

122, 123

Keyserling, Count Alexander, 26, 27
Keyserling, Count Caesar, 26
Keyserling, Count Hermann, 23-37,

44, 50, 67, 78, 116, 204, 205, 213-

35, 271, 302, 307
Keyserling, Countess Goedela, 28,

221-32

Keyserlingk, Count Carl, 243
Klages, Ludwig, 41
Koeber-Staehlin, Alfred, 308
Kolisko, Frau Dr. L., 314
Krishna, 105
Krishnarnurti, Jiddu, 53, 78-104,

116, 131, 225-6, 229, 258-88,

290, 298, 300, 310

Lachmann, Eduard, 308
Lansbury, George, 81, 99, 100
Laotse, 30

Lawrence, D. H., 186-7, 269, 312
Leadbeater, Charles, 53, 83, 84,

173, 227, 262, 288
Leeuw, J. van der, 93
Lennard, Reginald, 157
Lermontoff, M. J., 172
Lessing, G. E., 210
Levi, Eliphas, 152, 312
Lewis, C. Day, 75, 76
Lippmann, Walter, 229, 307
Lubitsch, Ernst, 108
Ludendorff, Erich von, 68, 69
Luther, Martin, 124, 219

Mackenzie, J. S., 255-6
Mackenzie, Sir Kenneth, 74
McPherson, Mrs. Aimfe, 122

318

INDEX

Madariaga, Salvador de, 215

Mann, Thomas, 204, 215, 231

Mansfield, Katherine, 186

Marcault, Prof., 93

Marie, Queen of Rumania, 143-4

Marx, Karl, 77

Maughan, Thomas, 53

Milton, John, 21

Mix, Tom, 108

Moltke, Helmuth von, 49, 50, 309

Moltke, Frau von, 49, 50

Morgenstern, Christian, 255

Morgenstern, Frau, 239

Morris, C. R., 158

Morris, William, 39-40

Moses, 58, 153

MuraviefT, Countess (see Cancrin)

Mussolini, Benito, 207, 255

Napoleon I, 205, 225
Narayaniah, 82
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 52, 172
Nityananda, Jiddu, 83, 84, 87

Olcott, Col., 173
Orage, Alfred, 185, 187-8, 199
Ouspensky, P. D., 79, 116, 163-80,
183, 290, 296, 312, 315

Paderewski, Tgnace Jan, 105
Pallandt, Baron Philip, 87, 90
Paracelsus, 302
Pascal, Blaise, 225
Pfeiffer, Ehrenfried, 314
Pickford, Mary, 108
Plato, 30, 54, 56 57, 255, 302
Plutarch, 291, 294
Pourtales, Guy de, 215
Powys, Llewelyn, 185
Prajadhipok, King of Siam, 144
Priestley, J. B., 158
Pythagoras, 56

Radnor, Countess of (Helen), 310
Rajagopal, 90, 264
Ram^krshna, 259
Raphael Sanzio, 54, 302
Rasputin, 186, 192
Rilke, Rainer Maria, 205
Rittenneyer, Friedrich, 56, 62, 63,
64, 65, 68, 74, 239, 309

Rockefeller, J. D. (jr.), 143
Rodin, Auguste, 85
Rolland, Romain, 258
Roosevelt, Franklin, 281
Roots, J. M., 142, 144, 159
Rosenberg, Adolf, 27, 209, 313
Ross, Sir Denison, 105
Rosenkreuz, Christian, 62, 309
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 40
Rothermere, Viscountess, 163-5
Russell, A. J., 151,311
Russian Empress, 31

Sauerwein, Jules, 49

Schneiderfranken, Joseph (see Be
Yin Ra), 45

Schopenhauer, Arthur, 2"/, 210

Schumann, 208

Schure, Edward, 54, 57, 58, 309, 314

Seilleire, Ernest, 307

Shaw, George Bernard, 228

Shelley, P. B., 21

Shri Meher Baba, 79, 105-18, 310

Siegfried, Andre, 215

Slade, Miss (Miraben), 110, 292

Spengler, Oswald, 24, 44, 231

Steffen, Albert, 255, 309

Stein, Freiherr vom, 219

Stein, Dr. Johannes, 314

Steiner, Frau Marie, 67

Steiner, Rudolf, 24, 44, 48-74, 76,
78, 116, 131, 165, 172, 185, 192,
204, 226-7, 229, 236-57, 268, 288,
290, 294, 295, 302, 308, 313-14

Sternberg, Josef, 108

Stresemann, Gustav, 206

Suare, Carlo, 310

Tacitus, 231

Tagore, Rabindranath, 36, 37, 225,

226

Tirpitz, Admiral, 69
Tsannyis Khan-Po (see Gurdjieff)
Turgenyeff, Ivan, 172
Twitchell, Ken, 144-5, 161

Unger, Dr. Carl, 314

Valery, Paul, 215
Vallentin, Bethold, 41
Victoria, H.M. Queen, 31

319

INDEX

Vivekananda, 259
Vreede, E., 314

Wachsmuth, Dr. Guenther, 314
Wagner, Richard, 27, 41, 208
Wales, H.R.H. the Prince of, 79
Waugh, Evelyn, 76
Wegman, Dr. Ita, 248, 250, 314
Weimar, Prince Karl August of, 32
Weingartner, Felix, 43, 308
Wesley, John, 124
Wilde, Oscar, 40

Wilhelm, Richard, 30

William II of Germany, 20, 23, 31,

36, 50, 68, 69, 210
Wilson, President, 69, 70
Winslow, Jack C, 311
Winspeare, Robert, 308
Wolfskehl, Friedrich, 41
Wolters, Friedrich, 41
Wordsworth, William, 66, 302

Ziegler, Leopold, 31
Zwingli, Ulric, 142

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